Flynn had to check in before he could even think about trying to remedy any of it. It wasn’t as if being dirty and tired was unusual west of the Mississippi. Nor was it unexpected after a trip like the one he had taken.
He stopped at the door to the new Marshal Office and gave in to the impulse to at least wipe his face with his kerchief. He took his hat off and swiped at his forehead and eyes, then stuffed the bit of red material back into the pocket beneath his frockcoat. He squared his sore shoulders and took a deep breath before strolling into the building that still smelled of fresh pine.
A bell hanging above the door dinged as he walked in. He glanced up at it curiously. The tiny brass bell was just as new as the rest of the construction. He supposed it made sense, though. The General Store next door had one to alert them to the arrival and departure of customers. A marshal should have some way of knowing when someone walked in.
The sounds of the bustling street outside reached through the newly built walls of the Marshal Office; horses’ hooves clopping along the packed dirt street, ladies’ boots clacking against the raised wooden walkways, men calling greetings to one another in the early morning cold. It was a comfortable, familiar scene; one that Flynn had missed.
The office, however, was anything but familiar. Flynn looked around at the bright, whitewashed walls and the pristine pine floors. The old office had been sparse and dreary, with scuffed floors, no windows and very little light. Someone had obviously seen fit to fix that when they’d rebuilt. The new construction was bigger, with a desk on one wall and a place for four or five people to sit near a potbelly stove along the other wall. There was also a cot in the corner for the rare night when someone needed to keep watch. The cells, rather than being all in one room like before, were out of sight in the back of the structure.
Flynn was impressed with what he saw.
He removed his hat and held it at his side, not wanting to knock the dust off his clothing in the clean room.
“Flynn?” The voice boomed from the rear of the building where the brand new brick and iron cells had been constructed.
Flynn peered into the dim, his eyesight still ruined from the bright morning sun outside.
Deputy US Marshal William Henry Washington, or Wash to friends and strangers alike, emerged from the back of the office and surveyed Flynn with sharp, clear green eyes. His sandy hair was shorter than it had been the last time Flynn had seen him. His beard and mustache were gone, with only the sideburns near his ears, as people had taken to calling them ever since Ambrose Burnside made them popular, still present. And for the first time in Flynn couldn’t remember how long, Wash wasn’t wearing his guns.
“You look like hell,” the marshal observed with amusement as he came striding out into the main office.
“Stillwater to Lincoln is a long trip,” Flynn drawled as he shook the hand Wash offered.
“But it’s easier on the return,” Wash responded with a grin.
Flynn smiled weakly and nodded. Transporting prisoners was never an easy task. Stillwater was one of the better transits because nearly every stop offered a decent place to lock someone up or otherwise restrain them with a minimum of fuss. Other ventures weren’t so successful, like when you had to tie your prisoner to a telegraph pole just to get a decent hour or two of sleep. The return alone, of course, was always easier and less stressing.
“Sense of humor is still top notch, I notice,” Wash muttered as he turned away and headed for the desk against the far wall.
Flynn cleared his throat and watched him silently.
“I’ve got another one for you,” Wash told him as he picked up a small yellow piece of paper and waved it in the air.
Flynn narrowed his eyes at the telegram with a sinking sensation in his gut.
“They’re waiting to be picked up in Junction City,” Wash continued as he glanced up at Flynn. “You ready for another one? I might can give this to someone else,” he offered, looking over Flynn’s tired face and slumping shoulders. His eyes drifted over the dusty clothing, then back up to meet Flynn’s eyes. “Actually, I can’t give it to no one else ’cause no one else is around, but I can offer and pretend I care that you’re about to yell,” he corrected with a hint of amusement.
Flynn merely glared at him balefully.
“It’s an easy one,” Wash offered in a voice that was probably meant to be enticing as he waved the telegram.
“The last ‘easy’ one you gave me tried to kill me,” Flynn reminded humorlessly. “Twice.”
“They’re outlaws, Flynn,” Wash laughed. “By and large, that’s what they do,” he crooned as he walked around the desk and handed him the telegraphed message.
“Is this one going to the gallows?” Flynn asked with a sigh as he reached for the paper. Prisoners going to their execution always gave the US marshals escorting them one hell of a hard time. They were fighting for their lives, after all. More lawmen were killed while transporting prisoners than any other activity they performed. Neither Flynn nor Wash had ever had a prisoner escape on them, though. Not one that they hadn’t recovered almost immediately, anyway. Or shot dead during the attempt.
Wash shook his head. “There are three in the group you’re picking up,” he told Flynn. “Two are heading to Fort Smith, some sort of military to-do, but you’re only taking them as far as St. Louis to meet up with the Army escort. The last is going to trial in New Orleans. You’ll have to
—
”
“Three?” Flynn interrupted incredulously. “This is an
easy
one? Goddamn, Wash!”
“Taking the Lord’s name in vain, Eli,” Wash censured with a smirk. “I’m shocked. What would the lady folk say?”
“You ain’t no damn lady. And I can’t escort three men by myself. Who’s going with me to ride herd?” Flynn demanded.
“You want someone to go with you?” Wash asked in feigned surprise.
Flynn smacked his hat against his jeans in frustration and sent a puff of dust swirling into the clean office.
Wash just laughed and held up his hand in surrender. “I’m going with you as far as St. Louis,” he answered, still laughing. “Then I’m to head to New Madrid to meet with the Governor, and I’ll meet up with you again in New Orleans for the return home.”
“You?” Flynn asked in surprise.
Wash shrugged and nodded. Flynn’s eyes strayed to the crisp linen sling that hung over Wash’s shoulder, supporting his left arm, and then back to the man’s eyes in question.
“I can draw a gun with one hand,” Wash assured him quietly, suddenly serious as he sat on the edge of the newly made desk.
“You can’t restrain a prisoner with one hand,” Flynn argued. “You can’t chain and unchain them with one hand. You can’t expect them to see you as a serious authority figure or anything of a threat with one hand.” He waved his hat at Wash’s shoulder. “They’ll be trying to escape left and right.”
“Then I’ll be sure to let them know,” Wash responded with his customary polite calm, “that since I can’t chain them or restrain them peaceably, I’ll just have to shoot them if they cause problems. Will that satisfy you?”
Flynn pursed his lips and blew air heavily through his nose. He didn’t want to insult Wash or hurt him, but he also didn’t want to be stampeded by a herd of escaping prisoners. “Can you use it at all yet?” he asked, already regretting his criticism. It was bad enough being injured. It was worse knowing people didn’t have much confidence in you, especially for a man like Wash, who had always been so capable.
Wash flexed his fingers as his hand lay against his chest. His fingers tapped the silver badge on his vest as he smiled crookedly. That was more movement than he had been capable of when Flynn had left for Stillwater Prison three weeks ago. Flynn watched him, unable to keep the hint of sadness out of his expression and silently wondering if his friend would ever get the full use of the arm back.
Wash grinned impishly at him, obviously reading him like an open book, and he flicked his wrist, producing a derringer attached to a gambler’s gauntlet out of the end of the sling.
Flynn blinked in surprise at the appearance of the gun, his body instinctively twitching to reach for his own Colt. He laughed suddenly, giving Wash a fond shake his head.
“You crazy bastard,” he commented. “You’re going to get yourself shot.”
“Hell, I already done that,” Wash responded with a grin. “And you might find me taking exception to such talk.” He turned away, going to the potbelly stove in the far corner and retrieving a tin tray of food that had been warming nearby.
Flynn watched him, contemplating the idea of working with Wash once more. They’d spent plenty of years together, battled Confederates and Indians together, and become US marshals together when they’d run out of wars to fight. But since Wash had been forced to take over the Lincoln Marshal Office a year ago due to the untimely death of their superior, Flynn had seen little of him other than the occasional drink or dinner at the saloon, and that just wasn’t the same. It would be welcome, actually, to be able to travel with Wash again and spend some time with his friend.
“When do we leave?” he asked as Wash retreated into the row of jail cells with the tin plate of food.
“After supper. Best you get a bath and some rest,” Wash answered over his shoulder.
Flynn hummed and gave the office a critical look around. He had slept on the train from Stillwater, and though the thought of a nice soak was highly appealing, he didn’t feel like leaving just yet. Escorting prisoners was a lonely task. They weren’t much for conversation, and neither was Flynn when criminals and horses were the only things around to talk to.
“When’d they get this finished?” he asked as he followed Wash back into the darker recesses of the office.
“Last week,” Wash answered in a lower voice.
Flynn was surprised to find one of the newly minted cells already occupied. “Who’s this?” he asked with a wave of his hat at the man who lay curled on the hard cot within the cell.
“What, you don’t recognize Larry Fitz?” Wash asked as he looked between the bars at the man.
Flynn looked again and his lips parted in shock. The man’s clothes were thin and tattered and he was covered in caked mud and blood. His hair was stringy and his face was sunken. Flynn had seen a man dragged by a horse who had looked something like Larry now did.
“What happened to him?” Flynn asked in disbelief.
“He got caught,” Wash answered grimly.
Flynn glanced at him and saw the familiar hard set of his jaw and the glint in his green eyes. The look told Flynn that the man inside the cell was lucky to be alive. Larry Fitz, who lay bruised and battered and barely recognizable, was essentially a harmless drunkard. Or he had been, until the night two months ago when he had gone on a bender and decided to set fire to the Feed and Seed, the building that had shared a wall with the old Marshal Office.
Wash had been inside the jail that night, and he had nearly lost his life trying to release the prisoners from their cells as the building burned down around them. His hands still bore scars from the burns he’d received from the heated metal of the bars as he’d opened them. The fire had leaped from the building that housed the General Store and Feed and Seed and the jail beside it, to the buildings on either side of them; the stables and the saloon.
The horses had all been saved, which was a stroke of luck considering their value in a town like Lincoln, but the buildings had burned down like the dry kindling they were, and with them went the livelihood of some of the town’s most prominent citizens. The biggest tragedy had been the deaths of three guests renting the rooms above the saloon who hadn’t been able to get out of the upper level in time. The damage to the town and to its reputation hadn’t made anyone particularly happy.
The prisoners Wash had risked his life to save had promptly tried to escape as the townsfolk dealt with the spreading fire. That was how Wash’s arm wound up in the sling. A bullet from a stolen gun had taken him cleanly through the shoulder as he’d tried to retake the prisoners without violence. Of course, after being shot, violence had not been one of Wash’s concerns and the escaped prisoners hadn’t made it very far.
The Doc was certain he would make a nearly full recovery. Flynn, though, was certain that the Doc spent too much time in the saloon, and so he worried for Wash and his arm.
The town was rebuilding, bigger, better, and more organized. The pristine façades of the new edifices made Flynn feel like he had wandered into the wrong place. The two prisoners who had attempted to escape that night now occupied permanent spots up in the shady little grove of headstones the local residents had naïvely named God’s Acre, thinking an acre would be enough to hold the dead in a town west of the Mississippi.
Larry Fitz, the man who’d caused the whole damn mess, had gone to ground as soon as he had sobered up and realized what he’d done, and he’d been in hiding ever since. Until now, apparently.
“Who found him?” Flynn asked softly.
“Cyrus Beeson, over on the flats,” Wash answered, his normally friendly and easygoing tone suddenly hard and grim. “It’s a damn miracle they didn’t kill him ’fore I got to him. Just happenstance I was anywhere near when they dragged him in. They were heading for a hanging tree, making a damn mess of it.”
“Shame you got to him at all,” Flynn muttered inhospitably.
“Law don’t work that way, Eli,” Wash murmured.
“It does out here.”
“It ain’t supposed to.” Wash slid his key into the lock and turned it slowly. The man inside didn’t move as the new hinges groaned. Wash knelt and placed the tray of food on the floor of the cell.
“Maybe it should,” Flynn argued quietly. “It’d make our lives a lot easier.”
Wash eased his way back out of the cell and retrieved his key, locking the cell and watching to see if Larry would move. When it didn’t appear that he would, Wash pursed his lips and turned to Flynn.
“Life’s not easy to come by,” he said in a tired voice. “I don’t mind mine being hard, and I don’t take it lightly when I’m forced to take one. You shouldn’t neither.”
“I ain’t the one deciding to waste my life by stepping outside the law,” Flynn argued.