by Abigail Roux
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 asked 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. Could Gabriel and Flynn be the trouble the man was talking about? Gabriel could certainly make enough of it if he wanted to.
“What kind of trouble?” Stringer asked. He was frowning heavily now, and he took a step toward the door.
“Someone got away,” the man in the hallway answered with an almost audible cringe.
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 asked through gritted teeth.
“Got his face smashed in.”
Stringer stood stock still for a long moment, fuming. Cage watched him, back still pressed against the wall, wondering if Stringer 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.
They tramped up the stairs, stopping at the third deck. Cage’s heart skipped another beat. They turned down the right corridor, heading toward Gabriel and Flynn’s cabin. Cage could see two men crouching over a third who lay in the middle of the deck at the far end. Blood had pooled under his ruined head, and it was obvious that he would not be getting back up.
Stringer cursed under his breath and jerked Cage to a halt. Cage’s heart was racing. That had been Gabriel’s door. He knew it. He knew Gabriel would fight back. With a mix of pride and sheer terror, he wondered what had happened to his other two traveling companions.
“What happened?” The two men who had been crouched over the dead bandit both stood and gave identical shrugs. Stringer began to fume. “No one was with him?”
“We was hurrying. He was rousting ’em and we was herding. He said he could handle the last door hisself,” one of the men answered defensively.
Stringer shoved Cage ahead of him, obviously not willing to let him slip through the cracks, and they entered the cabin through its busted door and looked around. The cot had been tossed at the door, as had the sturdy little chair that accompanied the tiny writing desk in the corner. It looked as if they had first tried to block the door when the man named Ed tried to get in. The porthole was open, and a cold wind whipped into the cabin off the river through the window and out the open door. Cage stood out of the way as Stringer took it all in.
When he began to talk, Cage snorted softly. Stringer had always been the type who needed to talk through his thoughts.
Cage didn’t have that problem.
“Whoever was in this room went and attacked him after he shot open the door,” Stringer murmured, talking to Cage and the other men as much as to himself. “Did he try to go through the window first? He might not’ve thought he’d fit, then decided he wanted to gamble with the buckshot instead.”
Stringer took several slow steps to the berth, putting his hand to the thin mattress. It seemed that nothing was there. But to a man who could track, it may as well have been a body lying there still. Cage could clearly see the impression left by the man who had been resting in the crumpled bedcovers. And he knew Stringer could see it as well.
Stringer turned with a frown and looked at the window again, then back at the bunk as he judged the former occupant’s size and weight. “He would have fit,” he finally decided. He rested his hand on the gun at his hip, handle turned backward, border style, just like Cage wore his. Stringer continued as he worked it out. “He wouldn’t a fit with his iron. But I don’t see no irons laying around.” He turned again and frowned at the ruined cot, lying crumpled on the ground near Cage’s feet, and then slid his eyes to meet Cage’s.
Cage’s eyebrows rose as Stringer looked at him. If he expected help from Cage, he’d better have another think coming.
“There were two men in this here cabin,” Stringer murmured. “I’m willing to bet one of ’em was restrained, same as in your’n. You know who this was, don’t you?”
Cage stared back at him silently for a long, tense moment before slowly shaking his head in answer.
“You’re lying to me, Cage,” Stringer practically purred to him as he stalked closer. “Same as you always was.”
He shoved Cage back into the bulkhead and backhanded him. It took everything in Cage’s power not to fight back. If he fought back, he’d be killed. And for the first time in a long time, Cage had something he wanted to live for.
Rose crouched at the top of the stairs, listening intently as Flynn knelt beside him. “I need my bag,” Rose whispered to him, his voice barely carrying above the wind and the rushing water of the Mississippi.
“What for?” Flynn asked in a harsh whisper. He was still wary of giving Rose any leeway.
“Weapons, Marshal. I would like to bring more than one shotgun to this particular fight.”
“Right,” Flynn muttered with a frown.
They had Flynn’s two Colts and the stolen shotgun, plus Flynn’s knife, which was still tucked into his boot. But Flynn understood the desire to have more, especially considering the daunting task at hand. The thought of Rose being heavily armed was not one that brought him much comfort. He knew that if they lived through the ordeal that was to come, Rose would turn on him in a heartbeat and try to escape. Flynn would have to be doubly vigilant if they further armed themselves.
“I like you, Marshal,” Rose said in a voice that Flynn thought might be meant to be reassuring. He continued in a whisper that turned into a boyish snicker. “I’d be sure to only maim you.”
Flynn glared at him.
“Joke,” Rose said with an innocent shrug.
“Shut up.”
A ruckus from below caused them both to flinch and scuttle backward, flattening themselves on the floor and peering through the ornate stairwell railing. Several men came stomping toward the stairs below them. Flynn watched them through the railings, confident that the darkness and the burgeoning fog would conceal them. He heard a sharp intake of breath from Rose beside him as they caught sight of Cage being dragged along by a large man with dark, curly hair spilling out from under his wide-brimmed black hat.
The man looked vaguely familiar, but Flynn didn’t know why. “You’re going to tell me what you know,” the big man was saying to Cage as they approached the stairs. “Or your marshal friend is going to do it for you.”
Cage stopped suddenly and jerked his arm away. The big man turned to face him and Cage made a series of angry hand movements that Flynn couldn’t even begin to decipher. The big man seemed to understand them, and he lashed out and hit Cage so hard that he slammed against the bulkhead of the ship. His knees gave out and he began to slide down the wall, going limp from the ferocity of the blow.
Rose made to rise and interfere, but Flynn reached out and restrained him.
“Think.” He pointed down at the group and then put h
is finger to his lips to keep Rose quiet.
One of the other men in the little group had Rose’s bag over his shoulder. They had obviously been to their cabin. Flynn wondered if Cage had led them there, or if the man Rose killed set off the alarm when he didn’t return. Flynn didn’t think Cage was in league with these men, or even cooperating with them. They had to do something to help him, but Cage wasn’t the only one they needed to think about.
“You kill them, it still leaves others with Wash and on the alert. He’ll be dead before we can get to him.”
Rose’s jaw worked angrily, and he glared at Flynn, but he finally nodded and returned his hard eyes to the men below. He and Flynn lay there, perfectly still and silent, until the group had descended the stairs, dragging Cage along with them.
As soon as they were gone, Rose whispered, “We have to get to some iron.”
“No,” Flynn said calmly, even though his heart was hammering with fear for what would be done to Wash. “We got to get to the gold before they do.”
“What? Why?” Rose asked incredulously. “Who gives a Boston dollar if they get the gold? Let them have it!”
“No. If we do that, then you’ll go and save your man and absquatulate while the rest—”
“Ab—what now?” Rose asked.
“Run off! Disappear!” Flynn said in utter frustration.
“Well, if you mean run off, then say run off!” Rose whispered in the same tone.
“You’ll save your man and run off, then!” Flynn shot back as he covered his head with his hands in aggravation.
“Are you more concerned about me escaping or about retrieving those men?” Rose asked heatedly.
“Both! I’m even more worried about them getting away!”
“Are you telling me you want to prevent this robbery? Just the two of us?”
“That’s my job.”
“Well, hang your job. It isn’t my job! The only job I’ve got is making sure I don’t get dead, and your job and my job don’t seem to go well together!”
“I heard you were a smart man,” Flynn said through gritted teeth. “Start proving the dime novels right and use your head. If we have the gold, then we can bargain with it ’til help gets here.”
“What help?” Rose asked with a pointed gesture toward the river.
“When we miss our first scheduled stop, someone will figure it out,” Flynn insisted, even though he knew riverboats rarely had schedules to begin with.
“You plan to steal the gold out from under their noses, and then bargain with those men for the life of a man you claim to love?”
“I never claimed nothing,” Flynn snarled. “And I ain’t thinking about love just now.”
“Then you aren’t human.”
Flynn glared at him with something close to hatred.
“Why is it so hard to say, Marshal?” Rose asked him earnestly. “Just say you care about him. You don’t even have to say you love him, just—”
Flynn lashed out and hit him. Rose’s head jerked to the side with the impact, and he closed his eyes without moving as Flynn glared at him some more. After a moment with his eyes closed, as he appeared to try to gain control over his temper, Rose sighed, long and low. He then opened his eyes and looked back at the stairwell, which was lit with flickering oil lamps. The light reflected in his eyes, giving him an otherworldly appearance that made Flynn uneasy.
“What will you be more ashamed of, in the end?” he asked without looking at Flynn. “Will it be harder to tell your maker you loved another man, or that you never let yourself feel it?”
The logic tugged at Flynn’s gut, and he shivered in the cool air. Rose turned his head to look at him solemnly as they both lay flat at the top of the stairwell. “You’re not big enough to admit it. You’re more scared of him than you are of those guns.”
Flynn’s jaw clenched, and he pulled himself closer to Rose as the low river fog began to settle around the boat. “I fought with the Iron Brigade. I walked through the cornfield at Antietam. I saw the dawn at Gettysburg. I was scared then, and not ashamed to admit it. But I ain’t scared of Wash!”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Flynn’s nostrils flared angrily, but he was beginning to realize what Rose was doing. He was trying to force his emotions into making the decisions for him. He turned away from Rose’s dark, knowing eyes before he could lose his temper again and tried to regain control of himself.
“I don’t give a good goddamn about that gold,” Rose told him in a low voice. “And I don’t care if those men get away scot-free tonight. What I do care about is Cage and seeing that he lives through it. I got him onto this boat, and I plan to get him off it. You and Washington . . . How does it feel to know you might lose him tonight?”
“Shut up,” Flynn snarled. “Just shut your damn mouth. I ain’t losing him tonight, not by a damn sight!”
“Good,” Rose said urgently. “So let’s go get them.”
“We’re going to go find the damn gold,” Flynn said, “and we’re going to use it to pay those men to leave this boat and let these people alone.”
Rose pressed his lips tightly together in disapproval.
“You told me I could trust you,” Flynn murmured as he met the man’s eyes. “But you got to trust me too.”
Rose stared at him blankly for a long moment. The fog was beginning to climb over the surfaces of the paddle steamer, coiling toward them. Rose’s eyes flickered rebelliously, but finally, he nodded grudgingly.
“All right, Marshal. We’ll do this your way. But if Cage is hurt in any way, I will kill you,” he promised seriously.
Flynn narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but he nodded in acceptance of the deal they were making. It was only fair, he supposed. Rose nodded in return. They got to their feet and began creeping down the stairs.
“Do you know how heavy that gold will be?” Rose asked in a low whisper as he led the way. “Where will we hide it? How will we hide it?”
“You just keep moving and let me do the thinking,” Flynn muttered.
“I hope they make note of that on my headstone.”
“Shut up.”
Cage was on his knees again, hands tied in front of him. Bat Stringer’s hand gripped his hair by his loose ponytail and used it to yank his head back.
“Are you here to protect the gold?” Stringer asked Wash loudly as he held a knife to Cage’s throat from behind him.
“No,” Wash insisted through gritted teeth. “I got nothing to do with that gold, and neither does he!”
“You were traveling with someone else,” Stringer said in a low growl. “Who are they and where did they go?”
“I don’t know where they are,” Wash answered honestly. Wash had never tried to deny that he knew Flynn and his prisoner. Cage wondered if the marshal had a deceitful bone in his body.
The knife dug into Cage’s throat, and he felt the warm lines of blood begin to trickle under his collar. He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes before blinking them back open and peering up at Wash.
Wash glanced down at him furtively. “I’m telling the truth, damn you!” he shouted as he struggled against the two men holding him back.
Stringer pulled the knife away and shoved at Cage’s head angrily, then he put his boot in the center of Cage’s back and pushed him all the way to the ground. Cage caught himself with his bound hands before his face could hit the carpeted floor of the salon. He looked up at the marshal, wondering why the man was trying to protect him or Gabriel. Most lawmen Cage knew would have just given them over and begged to be let go.
“Do you know who he is?” Stringer asked Wash with a sneer, pointing down at Cage as he pushed up from the floor. Stringer put his booted heel in the center of Cage’s shoulders again and shoved him back to the ground. “Why are you protecting him when you could save the lives of everyone here by just answering the damn question?” he went on with a gesture at the passengers and ship’s crew who were cowering around the walls of the salon
, all under armed guard. Cage knew Stringer didn’t care. He was just grandstanding, using the other hostages against Wash.
Wash glared at Stringer and then took in the people in the salon. The men were watching him guardedly, and the expressions on the faces of the ladies and the few children silently pleaded with him to do whatever Stringer wanted. Cage watched the stoic marshal struggle with his loyalties. If he could have shouted out the answers to keep Wash from having to do it, he would have just then.
With one last look around him, Wash returned his steady green eyes to Stringer and merely shook his head and set his jaw stubbornly.
Stringer gave Cage’s ribs a kick in frustration and he turned to his second-in-command; a small, ferrety man with eyes that couldn’t seem to look at just one thing at the same time. Cage recognized him, but couldn’t remember his name. And he didn’t much care to try.
“Take a few men and go to the hold,” Stringer ordered in a harsh whisper he apparently didn’t think Cage could hear. “We got to move before we lose control of this.”
The man nodded and turned away. He beckoned three men to accompany him, and they fell in line with an almost military precision. Cage watched them go with a scowl. If this was just about the crates of gold he had watched being loaded back in St. Louis, then Stringer and his men would have come and gone already. They wouldn’t have rounded up the people on the boat and made such a fuss in the first place. That wasn’t how they operated. There was something Cage knew he was missing, and it scared him.
“Why are you doing this?” Wash questioned, obviously thinking along the same lines as Cage.
Stringer gave him an amused, somewhat frightening grin. “You know who I am?” he asked as he stepped closer to Wash.
Wash leaned back away from him and watched him warily, obviously trying to gauge the correct answer before he spoke.
Most men in the West didn’t want to be known. Many had run from something back East, changed their name, created a new man who they could live out the rest of their lives as. It was considered bad manners to ask a man’s name, much less who he was, or who he had been. Some men in the West would even draw down on you if you asked them who they were.
