According to Hoyle

by Abigail Roux

  “You’re a man to ride the river with, Cage,” Wash said. “You done made your peace now. Now it’s time for you to do right by you.”

  Cage swallowed hard and nodded, his eyes betraying a conflict still warring within him.

  They sat with him for a long while, all of them silent and solemn.

  After the ship’s landing stage was secured to a particularly large tree, a bang from the hold announced the cargo being moved. Flynn edged closer and leaned over the railing to see what was going on. There were 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 impeccable suits standing apart from the line of uniformed men, waiting on something.

  Flynn frowned and turned around to search for 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 supposed crates of gold almost as soon as the 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. The soldiers were all busy with the heavy crates and didn’t notice the men making away with the pallet. The box was about the size of a bread box, strapped down to a platform with handles on both sides that the men used to carry it. One of them had thrown his coat over the box to hide the stenciled words on the side that declared it the property of the army.

  “What is that?” Wash asked.

  “We saw that when we was in the cargo hold,” Flynn said. “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 and pointed at it again emphatically.

  Flynn glanced at him. “What?”

  “You think that’s what they were after?” Wash asked 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 turned his attention back to the box. Cage had obviously heard something that made him so sure of that. “You think they did all this for that one little box?”

  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 said. 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.

  “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, impassively watching them approach 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 said, unconcerned. He mimicked Flynn’s gesture, showing them 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. He may have been an outlaw, but he’d also been a good man.

  The other three men paid them no attention. 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 said in his most authoritative voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Baird said, infuriatingly polite.

  “We need to see it.” Flynn came up beside Wash, face set in a determined scowl.

  “I'm afraid that won’t be possible,” Baird said with false regret, and turned away from them.

  Wash moved to stop him, grabbing his elbow. The man spun around, 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, grabbing his hand and shaking his head vehemently. Baird released Wash 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. Then he moved to a magnificent black horse and pulled himself into the saddle gracefully. “I understand the world rid itself of Dusty Rose in the river on top of it all. Job well done, I must say. I suggest you go home and get some well-deserved rest.”

  Flynn and Cage helped Wash off the ground, and they watched 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 the little caravan moved off without any soldiers riding herd for them. It was painfully obvious they’d just slipped that box out from under the army’s nose.

  Finally, Flynn turned to Cage and cocked his head. “You got any idea what’s going on?”

  Cage shook his head and flopped his arms expressively.

  “You know who those men were?” Wash said distantly. 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 added, despite his lack of knowledge on the subject.

  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 for an alternate explanation, 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? How had he known it would be here?

  Then it hit him, and his lips parted as he thought through it. Suddenly, th
e telegram made sense.

  “Son of a bitch,” Flynn murmured.

  “What?”

  “Stringer sent the telegram so there’d be enough of a fuss here in New Madrid to give Baird and his men a chance to steal away with that box. This is what they planned all along.”

  Wash and Cage both stared at him, then turned almost as one to look off into the distance where Baird and his men had disappeared.

  “Stringer wasn’t ever supposed to steal anything. That’s why he did all that herding, Wash, he was stalling. He probably planned to jump ship right before they got to New Madrid, and these soldiers were waiting to attack the men he left behind.”

  “Damn, Flynn,” Wash muttered with a twinkle in his eyes, “you’re thinking a little like an outlaw.”

  “Shut up,” Flynn said out of habit. “My God. Those coal bombs we found, they were going to blow the ship after it was all said and done, muddy the trail and make the Army think the box got lost in the shuffling and went down with the boat.”

  “That’s a lot of people dead for one little box.”

  Cage patted Flynn’s shoulder, then pointed off toward the horizon. He then tapped his chest where a badge would sit. He ended the gesture by making his finger into a gun, pointing it between Flynn’s eyes, and shooting him.

  Flynn frowned, not quite following.

  “Believe it.” Wash straightened his coat, nodding at whatever Cage had tried to communicate. “Whatever they had in that box? That’s government business. And they’d shoot us all dead if we got into it.”

  “That mean Stringer was government?” Flynn asked.

  Cage laughed, then clapped a hand over his mouth as if he hadn’t meant to. He shook his head vehemently. Stringer wasn’t government, then.

  “He sure was hired, though,” Wash added. “And it appears he won. But you know what this feels like? A whole lot of not our concern.”

  Flynn shared a look with Cage and the two men shrugged at each other. The sentiment 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 said as he rubbed his sore wrist and stared into the horizon where the stagecoach had disappeared.

  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.

  Cage whirled and found himself staring at Gabriel Rose with wide, shocked eyes. The man was moving away from the crowd of milling passengers, soldiers, and dock workers with care, glancing around as if he expected to be attacked from any angle.

  Flynn and Wash were silent, as stunned to see Gabriel as Cage was. They all three gaped at him.

  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. Gabriel 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 impetuously 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 fingers lingering on Cage’s shoulders. Cage pulled back and took Gabriel’s face in his hands, examining him intently.

  “I know,” Gabriel said to him with a small smile.

  “How in the blazes did you get out alive?” 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 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, almost light-headed 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, though I can’t imagine he got too far with that knife in his ribs,” he said grimly. “If he did, I think he’ll be headed directly for that box.”

  Wash moved closer and gently took Gabriel by the arm. “Forget the box, son, why don’t we get you inside somewhere? 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 escape from Wash’s grasp. “You’re just trying to arrest me again, aren’t you?” he said 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. He spoke slowly, as if trying to explain the stars to a horse. “You just came back from the dead.”

  “I was never dead, Marshal. Just because you believe it to be true doesn’t make it so,” he explained in the very same tone Flynn had just used. He was smirking, his eyes dancing.

  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, glancing between Cage and Gabriel. “Besides . . . I’m tired.”

  Cage nodded in agreement and turned to 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 studied 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 with a hint of sadness.

  Flynn stared at him as Wash shifted uneasily.

  “Well.” Wash glanced at Flynn, a sly light entering his eyes. “He is still in our custody.”

  Flynn nodded, gaze 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 said 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 met his eyes, then looked back at Flynn and nodded his thanks. “That’s quite decent of you, Marshal. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “You keep talking, we’ll just see.”

  Gabriel grinned widely, then he returned his attention to Cage and hugged him close. Cage knew what he was thinking without having to ask. They’d danced around each other for days, slowly getting closer and acknowledging the attraction they felt. They’d never had the freedom to act on it. Until now.

  “I suppose a warm supper and a warm bed wouldn’t go amiss,” Gabriel
said, and he glanced at the two marshals and smiled brilliantly.

  Flynn rolled his eyes and shook his head before trudging back toward the gangplank. It seemed to Cage that Marshal Flynn had been much fonder of Gabriel Rose when he believed he was dead. The thought made Cage smile despite himself.

  Wash stood with Cage and Gabriel, grinning. He reached out and took Gabriel’s hand.

  “I know what you done for him,” he said to Gabriel. “I thank you for it.”

  “It was my pleasure, Marshal Washington,” Gabriel replied politely.

  Wash nodded and moved to follow Flynn, ostensibly to retrieve their belongings from the boat.

  “Actually, it wasn’t a pleasure at all,” Gabriel called after them. “I don’t know how you stand him!”

  Wash kept walking, laughing as he went.

  Cage gently touched Gabriel’s shoulder. When he turned back, Cage met his eyes, unable to keep from beaming.

  “You’re looking a little worse for wear,” Gabriel said after a slow perusal of Cage’s body.

  Cage surveyed himself. His ruined shirt was open, revealing the linen wrap they’d used to bind his ribs. He could feel the bruises and cuts on his face, and he knew he must look haggard and drawn. His hair was coming loose from its formerly orderly tie. But Gabriel wasn’t looking much better. Cage eyed Gabriel critically, letting his gaze travel up and down with the same dubious expression Gabriel had given him.

  “Don’t even say it,” Gabriel threatened. He pointed a finger in Cage’s face. “I may smell like river mud, but I make it look good.”

  Cage laughed and shook his head fondly.

  “Which name do you prefer?” Gabriel asked suddenly.

  Cage’s expression fell and he licked his lips, fighting back the nerves as they bubbled forth again. He inhaled deeply to steel himself and slowly put his hand to his chest in answer.

  Gabriel nodded as if he understood. He jerked his head toward the main street and its array of hotels in the distance. “Come on, then, Cage. You can help me find all the bullet holes.”