They had neglected to mention that they had actually had the man known as Whistling Jack Kale in their possession all this time. It turned out that Cage, a.k.a. Jack Kale, was considered dead and gone by most, and therefore was one of the lesser wanted fugitive outlaws in the Territories. There wasn’t all that high a price on his head. Ratting him out wouldn’t have done any of the passengers much good, but Flynn had still expected someone to talk. But to Flynn’s eternal surprise, not one of the passengers on board had mentioned who Cage really was. Whether they just hadn’t believed Bat Stringer or were willing to leave Cage be in exchange for what he’d done for them, Flynn couldn’t guess. Mostly he figured keeping quiet about it was just the way of the West.
After the ship’s landing stage was secured to a particularly large tree, a loud bang from the cargo hold announced the cargo being moved. Flynn turned and leaned over the railing to see what was going on. He saw lines of soldiers on the shore, waiting for the hold to be secured so they could board and inspect the boxes of fake gold. The shipment still had to make its way to New Orleans. Flynn snorted at them in annoyance. Boxes of fake gold being transported by the Army was a new one to him. Perhaps they were a decoy, as Rose had suggested. Flynn didn’t know and didn’t care.
He also saw two men in dark suits, standing apart from the line of uniformed men, waiting on something.
Flynn frowned and turned around to glance at Wash and Cage. “Hey,” he called to them. He gestured for them to come look, and both men shuffled over, leaning over the rail with him.
To Flynn’s surprise, the soldiers began unloading the crates of gold almost as soon as the loading gangplank was secured. Apparently, they were sending it to New Orleans in some other, more secure way. That, or they were merely unloading it yet again until the ship was inspected to make certain it was seaworthy. Why they were going to so much trouble for a load of rocks Flynn couldn’t fathom. They had to have seen the boxes he and Rose had opened. They had to know the gold was fake.
The more he thought about it, the less sense it made.
Cage nudged Wash with his elbow and pointed as two more men in suits carried a small box up the loading ramp. It was about the size of a breadbox, strapped down to a platform with handles on both sides that the men used to carry it with. Flynn recognized it as the box that had so interested him and Rose.
“What is that?” Wash asked.
“We saw that when we was in the cargo hold,” Flynn answered with a frown. “Rose was messing with it, talking about how he thought it was that rock the Santee were after. Had a big ol’ padlock on it and we couldn’t get into it.”
Cage turned to look at him and pointed at it again emphatically.
Flynn glanced at him. “What?” he asked in confusion.
“You think that’s what they were after?” Wash supplied as he stared at Cage.
Cage nodded and looked between them urgently, pointing at the box again.
“They were after the gold,” Flynn argued. “They didn’t know it wasn’t real.”
Cage shook his head and tugged at his ear, then pointed at the box once more.
Flynn frowned and looked back down at the box. Cage had obviously heard something that made him so certain of that. “You think they did all this for that one little box?” he asked Cage incredulously.
Cage nodded and slammed his palm against the wooden railing to emphasize his certainty.
“Let’s go see what the hell it is, then,” Wash muttered as he pushed away from the railing and began jogging toward the gangplank.
Flynn and Cage followed close behind him, forcing their way down the landing stage gangplank, past several upset ladies.
“Hold on, there!” Wash called to the four men in suits as they loaded the box into the back of a stagecoach.
One of the men turned around, watching them approach impassively with his hand on the hilt of his gun. Flynn was shocked to discover it was the government man in the gray top hat from St. Louis, the one Rose had hidden from in the mercantile. Baird, Rose had called him.
“You,” Flynn said before he could stop himself.
“Do I know you?” Baird asked in a deep, cultured southern drawl.
“You’re Baird,” Flynn said as anger and frustration welled in him. He pulled the lapel of his jacket aside, showing his badge to Baird. “Friend of mine accused you of attempted murder.”
“Is that so?” Baird asked, unconcerned. Baird mimicked the gesture, showing Flynn his own badge. “The only men I’ve ever attempted to kill have been criminals, Marshal. Forgive me if I must question the company you keep in that regard.”
Flynn bristled and felt his face reddening, but what could he say in response? Rose
had
been a criminal. Even now, Flynn didn’t know what to believe about the man who’d given his life for a near stranger.
The other three men working paid them no attention as they talked. One got into the stagecoach with the covered box, and then the other two locked him inside before taking several other seemingly unnecessary measures to secure him.
Wash didn’t have his badge pinned to his vest yet, but that didn’t stop him from stepping forward and pointing at the coach. “We have reason to believe that box there was what the men who boarded the ship were after,” he told the man in his most authoritative voice.
“Yes, sir,” Baird answered, infuriatingly polite.
“We need to see it,” Flynn demanded as he came up beside Wash.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Baird said with false regret as he turned away from them.
Wash reached out to stop him, taking hold of his elbow and opening his mouth to speak. The man turned around, his hand moving like a striking snake, and took hold of Wash’s hand. The next thing Flynn knew, Wash was on his knees, twisting to keep his wrist from snapping in the man’s grasp.
Flynn grabbed for his gun but Cage stopped him, holding his hand and shaking his head vehemently. The man in the suit released Wash’s hand and turned away from them once more.
“You did an excellent job with your riverboat ordeal, Marshals,” he said smoothly as he walked past the head of the stagecoach. He patted the side of the stage, and then nodded at the driver to signify that they were ready. “I suggest you go home and get some well-deserved rest,” he added to them as he moved to a magnificent black horse and pulled himself into the saddle gracefully.
Flynn and Cage helped Wash off the ground, and they stood there watching helplessly as the stagecoach trundled away, followed by two heavily armed men on large horses.
The three of them stood where they’d been left, dumbfounded and frustrated as they watched the little caravan move off. Finally, Flynn turned to Cage and cocked his head.
“You got any idea what’s going on?” he asked.
Cage shook his head and flopped his arms expressively.
“You know who those men were?” Wash murmured distantly as he rubbed at his wrist. “Secret Service Department.”
“What?” Flynn asked incredulously. He’d seen the man’s badge, but he hadn’t recognized it. He didn’t know if the Secret Service even had badges. “Nah,” he claimed despite his lack of knowledge on the subject.
What he did know was that the Secret Service Department had been around for about fifteen years. They had gotten their start during the War Between the States, acting as spies for the Pinkerton agency. The Iron Brigade had dealt with a few of them in their time. They had been made official by the government after the war because the US Marshal Service didn’t have the manpower to investigate everything that came under their jurisdiction. It was rumored they still performed other, more nefarious deeds.
Flynn supposed it was possible those men had been part of the Secret Service Department, although he couldn’t fathom what they could be up to here of all places. When he tried to come up with an alternate explanation, though, he came up empty. He remembered Rose’s story about the government man he’d met with, the strange object that had been so important to so many different groups, and he wondered how it all filled in. If Baird had hired Stringer like Rose had claimed, why was he here collecting the very thing Stringer had been meant to steal?
“Believe it,” Wash huffed as he straightened his coat. “Whatever they had in that box? That’s government business,” he said with certainty.
Flynn shared a look with Cage and the two men shrugged at each other. The message was clear. What did they care about government business as long as they had lived through the night?
“Thank God we don’t get all the government we pay for, right?” Flynn offered uneasily.
“I say we do what the…
gentleman
suggested,” Wash sneered as he continued to rub his sore wrist and watched the stagecoach disappear into the horizon.
Flynn noticed with something like elation that Wash’s hurt arm was moving even better than it had been when they had left Lincoln, his sling hanging unused around his neck.
Cage patted Wash on the arm gently. Wash turned to him and Cage pointed to his wrist, then waved his own through the air violently and held out his hand to Wash consolingly.
“What?” Wash asked with a slight laugh.
“I believe he said, ‘at least he got your good arm and not your bad one’,” a cultured, accented voice translated from behind them.
C
AGE
whirled and found himself staring at Gabriel Rose with wide, shocked eyes. The man was moving away from the crowd of milling passengers and soldiers and dock workers carefully, glancing around as if he expected to be attacked from any angle.
Flynn and Wash were silent, as surprised to see the Englishman as Cage was. They all three stared at him, gaping at his sudden reappearance.
Cage took a tentative step toward him, staring hard just to make sure he was real. He was dirty and bedraggled, his hair unruly from having been wet and then dried by the sun. He’d lost his jacket and his newly acquired hat and from his knees down was caked in foul-smelling river mud. He was a far sight from the dapper man Cage had first seen in the jail cell in Junction City. He looked every inch like he’d just swum his way out of the Mississippi River and walked into New Madrid.
“What, no hello?” Gabriel asked of the three of them with an insulted spread of his arms.
Cage stepped closer impetuously and wrapped him up in a hug. Gabriel’s breath left him in a rush as Cage squeezed him. The hug hurt Cage’s ribs like he’d been set on fire, but he didn’t care. Gabriel returned the hug and laughed weakly, his filthy hands lingering on Cage’s shoulders. Cage pulled back and took Gabriel’s face in his hands, looking at him intently.
“I know,” Gabriel said to him with a small smile.
“How in the blazes did you get out alive?” Marshal Flynn blurted as he and Wash came closer. His voice was a harsh whisper, as if he was afraid one of the lawmen from the paddle steamer would overhear.
“A wing and a prayer, mostly,” Gabriel answered with a wan smile. “I washed ashore on the whim of the river and started walking. I made it here to New Madrid just as I saw the paddleboat being pulled in. I want to know what was in that box,” he added determinedly as he pointed in the direction the stagecoach had headed.
“What?” Flynn asked in consternation.
Cage looked back at him and then at Gabriel again with a confusing mix of emotions. He was elated to see Gabriel again, almost lightheaded with joy after the initial shock had passed. But he was also worried. If Gabriel had survived the river, that meant Bat Stringer may have managed the feat as well.
Gabriel’s next words compounded his concerns. “I think that man Stringer made it ashore as well,” he said grimly. “And I think he’ll be headed directly for that box.”
Wash moved closer and gently took Gabriel by the arm. “Son, why don’t we get you inside somewhere?” he suggested. “We’ll get us some warm food and a change of clothes and we’ll discuss all this.”
Gabriel shook his head stubbornly, but he didn’t try to release Wash’s grasp. “You’re just trying to arrest me again, aren’t you?” he accused with a small smile that made Cage grin.
Wash snorted and shook his head.
“Rose,” Flynn said as he held out a hand and closed his eyes. “You just came back from the dead,” he said slowly, as if trying to explain the stars to a horse.
“I was never dead, Marshal,” Rose argued. “Just because you believe it to be true doesn’t make it so,” he explained in the very same tone Flynn had just used.
Flynn glared at him. “All the same. Aren’t you ready to be done with this mess? It ain’t none of our concern now. If Stringer wants to go chasing after that box then I say let him.” He paused, looking between Cage and Gabriel. “Besides,” he continued almost uncomfortably as he glanced at Wash, “I’m tired.”
Cage nodded heartily in agreement and looked at Gabriel hopefully. He wanted nothing more to do with any of it. He was no hero and didn’t want to be one. He had his freedom, and now he had Gabriel back with him. That was all he could ask for. Why in the world would they go borrowing trouble now? He silently begged Gabriel to forget the whole business.
Gabriel looked at him, studying him up and down. Finally, the man nodded minutely and sighed. His next words did not make Cage feel any better, though.
“Do you still plan to take me to New Orleans for trial?” Gabriel asked Flynn and Wash. He raised his chin, a hint of sadness in his eyes.
Flynn stared at him as Wash shifted uneasily.
“Well,” Wash murmured as he glanced at Flynn slyly. “He is still in our custody.”
Flynn nodded, his eyes locked with Gabriel’s. He shook his head suddenly, and Cage released a puff of pent up air.
“Last I heard, dying pretty much fixes these sorts of problems,” Flynn claimed with a slow smile. “Besides. You got yourself a posthumous pardon.”
Gabriel tried to cover his shock, but he couldn’t quite manage it. Cage reached out to him, ecstatic, and he squeezed his arm. Gabriel looked at him and grinned widely, then he looked back at Flynn and nodded his thanks. “That’s quite decent of you, Marshal,” he said quietly. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”