According to Hoyle (9 page)

Flynn took off his hat and waved it at the bits of dust and straw floating toward him. He cocked his head at Rose and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You spent time with the Sioux?”

“Why do you ask that, Marshal?” Rose asked in real interest.

“That’s a Sioux word, ain’t it? Koda? I’ve heard it a few times.”

Rose gave him a pleased smile. “It is, indeed. I spent some time with the Santee, up near Flandreau,” he answered with a touch of wistfulness. “Even the law won’t follow you there.” The mischievous addition completely ruined any admiration the information may have kindled in Flynn. “That was where I found him. Koda means friend in their fine language.”

“Fascinating,” Flynn muttered as he finished saddling a fresh horse.

“What were you doing venturing all the way up to Flandreau?” Wash asked Rose.

“This and that.”

“How long were you there?”

“Many moons,” Rose intoned dramatically. He smirked at Wash. “I find the savages can teach a man quite a lot that’s useful in this country,” he went on with a hint of wry humor to his voice. It was difficult for Flynn to tell when he was being sarcastic and when he was just being English. He suspected Rose was simply dissembling, waiting until they tired of the subject so he wouldn’t have to answer honestly. He’d made it very clear previously that he didn’t approve of the way the Indians were treated out here, and he obviously didn’t think of them as savages, as he’d just called them.

Flynn didn’t have much opinion on the matter anymore. He’d seen the aftermath of settlers who’d been massacred by marauding tribes, and he’d seen what a band of soldiers could do to a camp of defenseless Indian women and children. There was never just one side to any story. Wash had taught him that.

Rose continued to talk about the Sioux, his voice losing its teasing tone as he told Wash why he’d been allowed to stay with them for so long, and about the variety of interesting legends and histories he’d learned from them while he was their guest. “During the time I was there, there was quite a lot of talk of something they called
tetlteotl
,” Rose was telling Wash as Flynn began paying attention once more.

“That ain’t a Sioux word, is it?” Flynn asked.

“No, it’s not, Marshal,” Rose answered with a serious shake of his head. “I don’t know what language it is. Neither did they. Or if they did, they wouldn’t clarify it. But from what I gathered it meant something like ‘the wonderful stone’. Or ‘the terrible stone’, I wasn’t sure. It was very important to them, something they’d lost. They spoke of searching for it in land held by the white man’s army. They seemed to think I could help and so they kept me around for a while, trying to determine if I was trustworthy.” As he spoke, he seemed to be gauging their reactions for something Flynn couldn’t fathom. He almost appeared to be judging whether he could trust
them
, but Flynn couldn’t imagine why.

“Did you help them?” Wash asked. Flynn couldn’t tell if he was really interested or just making conversation as they waited for the horses to drink.

“I daresay I could now if I ever went back. But I never earned enough trust to try,” Rose admitted with what seemed sincere regret.

“Why don’t that surprise me?” Flynn muttered under his breath.

Rose merely rolled his eyes at Flynn and turned around again, no longer willing to talk. Flynn smiled to himself. He’d finally found a way to shut the man up.

They continued on until the sun began to set, the dog happily trotting along beside Flynn’s horse. The cool began to settle once more as they set up camp, and Hudson began to protest loudly about hunger, thirst, cold, soreness, and every other misery he could think up. Interestingly, he didn’t complain about being dirty.

Flynn and Wash blatantly ignored the man. Rose made several caustic remarks in response to the complaints, but when it became apparent to him that he was playing above his audience, he tired of the effort. He quieted and leaned against Cage, who was becoming Flynn’s favorite prisoner simply because he didn’t speak. Rose pulled his hat down over his eyes and Cage settled against him. The dog hopped up onto the wagon, laid itself over their laps, and promptly fell asleep.

Flynn sat awake watching the wagon for a long time, his face set in a frown. He could hear Rose murmuring to Cage, but he didn’t strain his ears to listen. The way Rose and Cage behaved toward one another made Flynn’s more intimate thoughts turn to Wash, and Flynn was trying his best to avoid that at all costs. He didn’t need the heartache caused by lingering over it.

When he finally forced himself to try and sleep, he found himself wondering what the “terrible stone” was, and why it had been important enough for the Santee to keep a man like Gabriel Rose around for any amount of time.

T
HE
night was not as cold as the previous one had been, but it was not by any stretch of the imagination a comfortable one, either. Cage lay on his side beneath the wagon, one arm chained to the wagon wheel and almost his entire body covered by the blanket the marshals had given them.

Gabriel Rose lay next to him, facing him as they shared the thick blanket. The wool smelled of horse and wood smoke, but it was warm against the chill and that was all that Cage cared about. Gabriel was warm too, and that was a fact that Cage was beginning to notice more and more.

He was also a talker. Cage found himself smiling despite the discomfort of their situation as Gabriel murmured to him quietly in the darkness.

“Were you born unable to speak?” Gabriel asked him. His breath was warm on Cage’s face as they huddled together, close enough that when Cage answered with a nod, Gabriel was able to feel it rather than needing to see it.

Cage had never been asked questions like the ones Gabriel asked him. He supposed people had always been too afraid to ask them, or had just not cared enough to be curious.

“I bet you find it works to your advantage, sometimes,” Gabriel mused. “It took me far too long to learn that keeping my mouth shut was advantageous.”

Cage snorted in amusement. He wasn’t sure Gabriel had learned that lesson in its entirety yet. He raised his hand, placing it on Gabriel’s chest carefully. He jabbed a finger against his chest and then patted him again.

“Yes, I know,” Gabriel murmured in amusement.

Cage nodded, still amazed that Gabriel continued to be able to decipher his attempts at communicating with him. He supposed that was one reason he felt drawn to the man. His hand remained where it had been, resting between their bodies against Gabriel’s chest.

“Yes, well I suppose some never do, hmm?” Gabriel murmured thoughtfully.

Cage didn’t respond, merely letting the silence fall around them for a moment and enjoying the warmth of Gabriel’s body next to his. It had been a long time since he’d shared a bed with another man, even if that bed was on the hard ground beneath a creaky wagon. He was determined to let himself enjoy it.

Gabriel shifted next to him, edging just that much closer as he brought his hand up to cover Cage’s. Cage felt his breath catch, and his heart beat faster as Gabriel’s fingertips caressed the back of his hand.

“This is an unexpected consequence of my latest indiscretion,” Gabriel told him in a whisper.

Cage swallowed with difficulty, not quite understanding. He recognized the tone of Gabriel’s voice though, low and intimate. It hit him hard, stirring a confusing mixture of emotions. On one hand he was thrilled. But they only had until St. Louis to enjoy each other’s company, and even that short amount of time was to be had in irons, chained to a wagon under armed guard. Pleasures in life were fleeting, though. Cage knew that all too well.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Gabriel asserted.

Cage shook his head.

“You’re thinking ‘why couldn’t I have met this charming Englishman before I got myself arrested’,” Gabriel told him wryly.

Cage laughed, but he didn’t give Gabriel the satisfaction of knowing he was basically right.

“Perhaps not,” Gabriel said when Cage didn’t nod. “Perhaps you’re thinking something more along the lines of what I’m thinking.”

Cage blinked at him in the darkness, wishing he could make out more of Gabriel’s features. He could just barely see the outline of one prominent cheekbone and his well-defined jaw, see the mischievous quirk to his lips when he smiled. His black eyes, though, were in shadow.

Cage licked his lips and gave a small, questioning jerk of his chin.

Gabriel edged closer, their noses touching as he spoke. “I was thinking I don’t do poignant goodbyes,” he answered, just before pressing his lips gently to Cage’s.

Cage made a small sound of approval and Gabriel pressed closer, kissing him soundly. When he ended it, he moved back only far enough to be able to speak again. Cage worked his fingers under the silk vest Gabriel wore and held him there.

“I know you don’t know me from Adam’s cat, Cage, but I refuse to let them take you back East for a trial you’ll never win,” Gabriel said determinedly.

Cage’s lips parted in confusion and he shook his head. He wasn’t sure what it was that had struck Gabriel about him. Perhaps it was the same indefinable kinship he himself felt with the man. It was strong enough, though, that Gabriel seemed willing to fight for more of it. Cage was too, but not at the expense of escaping and finding themselves on the run in a land where lynching was still the order of the day.

He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life a wanted man.

He shook his head vehemently and gave the chain on his wrist a tug.

“I don’t plan to escape,” Gabriel assured him gently. “Where would we go out here, hmm? There’s nothing but wide open prairie and cow chips.”

Cage breathed a sigh of relief.

“We’ll have to wait until we reach St. Louis,” Gabriel told him with a darker, more determined tone in his voice.

Cage groaned softly and closed his eyes. He could tell there would be no arguing with the man on this point. He would just have to make certain no one got killed trying to stop him.

F
LYNN
awoke in the early hours of the morning with a slight jerk. He had heard a noise, a faint one, but one unnatural to his well-trained ears. It had been a rustle of clothing, maybe, or the scrape of a boot heel in the dirt. Wash lay beside him, tense and alert as well.

Very slowly, Flynn turned his head to look at the silhouette of the wagon in the low moonlight. Two bundles of men, wrapped in blankets, huddled near the wagon wheels, just like they had left them. The dog was trotting away from the dying fire, back toward the wagon.

As he watched him, Flynn saw moonlight glint off something in the dog’s mouth.

His hand immediately reached to the saddlebag where he was resting his head, to the flap where the keys to the manacles were kept, and he cursed loudly when he found them missing.

He jumped to his feet and reached for his gun, but he wasn’t wearing his holster. Rose’s hands shot out from under the blanket and grabbed the keys from the dog’s mouth. Flynn gave a hoarse shout of warning. Wash was on his feet, shrugging the blanket off his shoulders as he stood and raised his heavy shotgun with one hand. Rose had managed to unlock himself from the chain that restrained him to the wagon wheel and roll under the other side of the wagon before Wash could aim the shotgun with his one good hand.

Next to the wagon wheel, still partly under the wagon where they’d been for shelter from the cold, Cage curled into a ball and covered his head as if he expected Wash to fire at him even though he’d missed his chance at a clean shot.

Flynn scrambled for his holsters and yanked his six-shooter out, whirling and trying to spot Rose in the darkness.

He saw nothing and heard nothing of the dangerous Englishman, but he did see the dog, loping away from the camp. He aimed his Colt and cocked the hammer.

Rose hit him from the side like a ten-pound hammer. They both went rolling in the dirt, dangerously close to the dying embers of the fire, and Flynn’s gun was sent skidding into the night. Flynn struggled to regain his wits before he found himself taking the big jump a little early for his taste. He knew Rose was deadly with a gun and even more deadly with a knife. He was just thankful Rose didn’t have either at the moment. What he did have was the advantage of being on top of Flynn. He was stretching the chain between his manacles tight against Flynn’s throat, pushing down and strangling the life out of him. Flynn could just barely see his black eyes in the darkness. He gripped the chain and pushed at it, trying to suck air into his chest as lights danced in his vision.

The butt of the shotgun hit Rose right under the ear. He toppled sideways to the ground without even a grunt. Flynn gasped for air and put his hands to his throat instinctively, feeling the indentations the chains had made in his skin.

Wash stood over them both, silhouetted by the moonlight. Flynn stared up at him and continued to struggle to get his breath, speechless and still not quite comprehending what had just happened. He had almost been killed without hardly putting up a fight.

“He got the drop on you, Eli,” Wash observed neutrally as he rested the butt of the shotgun on his hip and pointed the barrel down at Rose’s chest.

“I know it, damn you,” Flynn gasped as he finally forced himself to move, trying to cover the embarrassment.

“He was going to shoot my dog,” Rose muttered, his voice hoarse and broken. He held his hands to the side of his head and curled on the ground in pain.

Flynn lumbered to his feet and coughed, looking down at the man with a sneer. “He was helping you escape.”

“He’s a dog, he doesn’t know what escape is. He was just doing what he’s trained,” Rose insisted to them dazedly.

“Yeah? Well, so are we,” Wash responded calmly.

Chapter 5