by Lynda J. Cox
Victoria staggered out. And realized Jon wasn’t behind her.
“JON!” She turned to go back into the building, halted by Karl and Klint. They dragged her back from the building. She screamed at them. Struggled to pull free.
“Stay here,” Karl said, thrusting her fully into Klint’s restraint, before he raced toward the door framed with dancing, hungry flames.
She tried to punch Klint, kick him, anything to break free.
“They’re out,” the former sharpshooter shouted in her ear. “They’re out.”
As hard as she struggled to break free, she found she was incapable of moving when Klint released her. Jon and Karl carried a still unmoving Colbert between them. A safe distance from the fully engulfed building, they let Colbert’s form fall into the mud. Jon collapsed to his knees, coughing.
Victoria broke the immobility holding her. She raced to Jon, dropping next to him, enfolding him into her embrace. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, fingers curling around the back of her neck, cradling her.
Over her shoulder, the image emerging from the dense, clinging fog chilled her. All the town’s people who had rushed to extinguish the livery fire plodded along, goaded and kept in a tight group by several armed, masked men on horseback. A quick twist of her head to the other end of town revealed several more outlaws riding slowly toward them. Her heart lodged in her throat. Even though he wore a bandanna over the lower half of his face, she had no doubts Jonathan rode at the front of the outlaws approaching from the only road into or out of Brokken that was still accessible in the flooding.
Mathew broke free from the group, halting when Jonathan shot the ground in front of him.
Victoria scrambled to her feet, assisting Jon at the same time. “Don’t shoot him. He’s a doctor and this man—” She nudged her head at Colbert. “—needs help.”
“I don’t care.” Jonathan leaned back in the saddle, a study in callous indifference. He tugged the bandanna down. “Long time, Torie. Aren’t you going to come and give your husband a kiss and welcome me home?”
The startled murmurs moving through Brokken’s citizens rippled away from her.
Victoria shook her head. “Did hell freeze last night?”
The smile twisting up a corner of his mouth contained more ice than a glacier. “We still need to work on your attitude.” His gaze shifted slowly to Jon, and the smile grew even colder. “Found a replacement, too, didn’t you?”
Jon gently tugged her lower arm, pulling her behind him.
Jonathan gestured to Klint and Karl with the muzzle of his revolver and made a shooing motion toward the group of Brokken’s citizens. “You, in with the rest of them.”
Victoria and Jon took a step closer to the group, halting when Jonathan said, “Not you two. You just stay where you’re at.”
Victoria was certain her insides were full of ice. Jon once more put her behind him, the burning jail to their backs. He slid his foot back in the mud, closing what little space remained between them. His rasping breath concerned her—he’d inhaled so much smoke pulling Colbert from the jail. As unobtrusively as possible, she pressed her hand against the small of Jon’s back and brushed her revolver tucked into the waistband of his trousers.
Victoria’s gaze skimmed from Jonathan to the men in his gang and then to the people of her town. Six outlaws in total and Jon had fired two shots to break the door locks on the cells. If she shot Jonathan, would the other five cut and run?
She wrapped her fingers around the grip. Jon minutely shook his head, one small motion, halting her.
Apparently unaware of the byplay between Jon and her, Jonathan leaned an elbow onto the saddle horn. “Karl, where are Curt and Fritz and that lovely little sister of yours?”
Karl shook his head. “Curt is somewhere in Indian Territory, and I haven’t seen Fritz tonight. Deborah doesn’t even live in town, any more.”
A low moan sounded from Colbert. Mathew lifted his head toward Jonathan. “I need to help that man.”
“You need to shut up and stay right where you’re at.” Jonathan aimed directly at Mathew’s chest. “Or, you’ll be the first one I drop.”
Victoria took a small step to the side, exposing herself further, but kept her arm around Jon’s waist. More importantly, she still held the grip of her revolver. “What do you want?”
“Several things, but we’ll start with the real important one.” Jonathan moved the gun to Jon. “Karl, where’s the gold?”
“There isn’t any.” The break in Karl’s voice gave away the lie.
In the second before Jonathan squeezed the trigger, Victoria realized what he intended. Without time to think, she shoved Jon as hard as she could to the side, inadvertently stepping into the line of fire, while at the same time, jerking her revolver free. The bullet burned a path along her upper arm, spinning her around, and to her knees. She still had enough of her wits about her to huddle into herself, hiding the revolver.
Metal scraping on metal sounded all around her with revolvers and rifles being cocked and everyone seemed frozen. Everyone other than Jon. Jon flung himself over her, covering her. Protected by his form, pressed even further into a huddled position, she couldn’t pull the hammer back to cock her revolver. The hammer kept catching on her shirt.
“Get away from her.” As level and unconcerned as Jonathan’s voice sounded, he could have been discussing the weather.
A chill skipped through Victoria. If Jon moved off her, she’d only have seconds to cock the gun, aim, and shoot. She just wanted to kill Jonathan before the bullets from his gang would kill her.
Jon spoke over his shoulder. “You want her, you’re going to have to shoot through me.”
“Have it your way.” The loud bark of another shot echoed through the fog.
Chapter Twenty
Jon braced himself with the report, but no bullet hit him. The sound hadn’t faded when four rapid shots echoed, and screams erupted. He pulled Victoria closer to the boardwalk, pushing her behind an over-flowing rain barrel. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, speechless for the first time since he’d met her. Without any warning, she popped her head above the container and snapped off a quick shot, then ducked back down.
Jon leaned back against the barrel, flinching when a shot hit the upright roof support a foot away. His collarbone burned white-hot, nauseating with the pain. Engaging in a gunfight probably wasn’t on any list of activities Knight would approve for him. He wiped the sweat from his brow, surprised at the soot covering his sleeve.
Victoria popped up again to take a shot but didn’t fire. When she simply leaned her elbows onto the top of the barrel, Jon heaved out a sigh. He grabbed her shirt and pulled her down. “First rule of engaging the enemy—don’t give him a target.”
The grin crossing her face was sheepish. “I’ve never really been in a gunfight.”
“I couldn’t tell.” Jon tugged her shirt, urging her to move closer to him. “Are you all right?” he asked again.
She nodded. “You?”
“I wouldn’t recommend this strenuous physical activity with a broken bone, but I’ll be all right.”
Shots continued to ring in the darkness, though from the echo, most were coming from a distance. The pounding of horses’ hooves into the muddy street vibrated across the square. Jon risked a glance around the barrel. Several of the masked outlaws lay in the mud, unmoving. A few of Brokken’s citizens were also in the mud, though none of them appeared to be seriously injured. The rest of the outlaws had scattered.
English didn’t appear to be one of the ones injured or dead.
Several more reports pierced the damp night, from opposite sides of the open square. A muzzle flash flickered from the direction of the doctor’s house. The lady hadn’t misspoken when she said she knew how to use the rifle. That just left the questions of who the other shooter was and where was English.
Near the opposite end of town, another muzzle flash sparked. High up, as if from on t
op of the school house. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw another outlaw fall.
In complete disregard of the bullets flying around him, Knight knelt over Colbert, assessing the downed man.
After what seemed to be an eternity, though Jon knew from bitter experience it had probably been less than two minutes, silence fell into the square. Slowly, those who had fallen to the ground to avoid the shots began to pick themselves up. One of the outlaws moaned and lifted his revolver.
From the middle of the group of Brokken’s people, Klint pushed his way clear and aimed a revolver at the outlaw.
Jon turned his head away even as a single shot ended the outlaw’s threat. A new quiet filled the area, and both he and Victoria emerged from behind the rain barrel. Victoria ran to the people she knew, and he heard her asking over and over, “Are you all right? Did you get hit?”
Across the street, Yancy McCoury emerged from the shadows, a revolver in his hand, another tucked into the waist of his denims. Peter Levinson walked down the street from his blacksmith shop, a rifle held between both hands. Jon recognized the way the man handled the weapon as a manner to quickly bring it into a firing position, if necessary.
Victoria paused her assessment of her neighbors to demand of McCoury, “How did you know?”
“That it wasn’t him?” The candy-shop owner jerked his thumb at Jon and then lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “When the other one showed up at the jail, we all knew something was rotten in Denmark. Even if his collarbone was just bruised, he wouldn’t be moving his arm around like that one was.”
Jon scanned the faces around him, then turned his attention to those fallen. He shook his head, forcing the sudden, overwhelming recollection of too many battlefields in the aftermath of deadly fighting into the shadows where such memories resided. He settled his gaze on Knight assisting Colbert to sit up.
Jonathan English was nowhere to be seen. Jon turned on a heel to McCoury. “Did you see where English went?”
“I was more concerned with not hitting my friends or neighbors when the shooting started.” McCoury pointed down the street. “Right now, we need to get these people back to their homes.”
“What about the livery?” Victoria craned her head over her shoulder. The flames leaping into the night through the roof of the jail bathed her and the gathered assembly with undulating stark shadows and reddish light.
“It’s a total loss,” Klint said.
“I’m getting very tired of that man burning our town.” Victoria looked up and down the street. “I want a posse formed in the next five minutes. He couldn’t have gotten too far.”
“He didn’t leave.” Jon knew English hadn’t left as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the east. “He’s still in town, somewhere.”
Several of the remaining group turned to Jon, some with surprise, others with growing concern. Victoria, her hand still held out to him for the return of her revolver asked, “What makes you so certain?”
“There’s only one way out of town. Someone was taking the outlaws down from high up on that end of town.” Jon gestured to Klint and Karl. “Get to that end of town and make sure nothing leaves. We’ll start on this end and go building to building.”
Karl nodded. “Flush him out.”
“Yes.” Victoria took over. “Consider him extremely dangerous. Work in pairs.”
Movement out of the corner of his eye drew Jon’s attention to Knight. Colbert was on his feet, though he was unsteady. Jon looked away, to the group of men and a few women pairing up to begin the search. “Go door to door and room to room, but don’t take chances.”
“Pulling me out of that building hasn’t changed a thing, six-seven-five.” Colbert’s gibe hung in the air.
Jon stiffened and then leveled a glare over his shoulder. “Don’t make me regret saving your life, Colbert.”
It was childish, taunting Colbert, but he took some satisfaction in noting the portly man struggled to find a returning salvo. Jon gestured in the general direction of the town’s end. “We’re wasting time.”
By the time Jon and Victoria reached the undertaker’s, Jon was starting to have doubts that English was still in the town. There was no way for his doppelganger to get out. Every creek and river that bordered the town was swollen out of its banks, and two of the homes nearest Blueberry Creek were flooded with a foot of water. The only way in or out of town was the road that went to the north and led to the Brokken Arrow. English would have to know it was the only way in or out.
The heavy fog drifted around the buildings as if it was some sort of strange, living creature seeking a manner to invade every structure. It curled in thick gouts of damp gray around Victoria and him, trailing droplets of water on everything it touched. The fog parted for a moment in front of the undertakers, and a flicker of movement behind the coffin displayed in the window of the Klein’s establishment caught in the corner of Jon’s eye before the curtain of fog closed again. He grabbed Victoria and pulled her out of what he quickly calculated to be the line of sight afforded by the large glass plate.
She didn’t argue, merely looked over her shoulder at him. He pointed to the building, and then pressed his finger to his lips. A visible shudder rippled over Victoria.
“Is there a back door?” Jon kept his voice at a whisper, not sure how far sound would carry.
“Yes.”
Jon heaved out a short, harsh breath. “We’ve only got one gun between us, and it’s down three rounds. Go around the back of the building and make your way toward the houses. One of us has to go get help.”
“Why do I have to get help?”
“Because if anything happened to you...” He trailed off, unwilling to even try to define what it would do to him.
She tilted her head up to him. In the clinging fog, the tendrils of hair escaping her severe chignon curled and glistened. More than anything, he wanted to take her away from this place, leave Brokken behind, and find someplace where his past wouldn’t always be a specter. Her hesitation felt as if an eternity passed and then she nodded. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Thank you.” He studied the Klein’s building, debating the best manner to make his approach.
Victoria handed her revolver to him. “You’re going to need this.”
His fingers curled around the grip. As she turned from him to go around to the back of the building, he pulled her into a fierce, one-armed embrace and kissed her. She wound her arms around his neck, clinging to him long after the kiss ended. As he slipped free of her arms, she raised up to tip-toe and kissed him again.
“For luck,” she said.
“We’re going to need it.” Jon watched her melt away into the ever-thickening fog. How could it get any thicker? He could barely see the Klein’s business through the grayness.
When he thought he’d allowed enough time for Victoria to get around the back of the building and out of the line of fire, Jon drew a deep, steadying breath and approached the undertakers. His first step onto the boardwalk was almost his last. The wood absorbed so much moisture over the past days that the fog beaded on the surface and made the planks as slick as winter ice.
Off-balance with his arm immobilized to his torso, his foot slipped, and he crashed to a knee. The soft tap of metal against glass was his only warning. He flung himself backward, as far out of the line of fire as possible, even as a muffled shot sounded. A small blossom of muzzle flash dissipated, drowned by the fog.
Without any conscious thought, Jon snapped the revolver up, twisted toward the door, and fired in what he hoped was the general area where English was. Before he felt the recoil of the gun, he rolled off the boardwalk, onto the street and pressed himself as flat as possible.
His stomach roiled with the pain searing through him from his collarbone. All he wanted to do was lay in the cool mud, and let it pull the heat and pain from him. He didn’t have the luxury of time to do that. English wasn’t stupid. It would only be a matter of minutes, if not seconds, before t
he man emerged from the undertakers to verify a kill.
Jon craned his head from side to side, a chill settling over him. Directly to the south of the undertaker’s, in the line of fire gauging from the muzzle flash, was the doctor’s house. To the north, was the residential area of town.
English lived here once. He would remember.
Jon had to do something. If English fled out the back, it was only a matter of yards before he would find more shelter. And possibly hostages...
He crawled through the mud, hoping he kept his profile below the boardwalk. When he thought he was directly in front of the wide, doubled doors, he risked a survey of the situation. The doors were barely visible, shrouded with the night and the fog. Damn the fog.
No.
Bless that cloaking, wet, cover. If he couldn’t see through it, neither could English.
Still unwilling to trust his life to the whims of the swirling, dense gloom, Jon remained below the boardwalk. He brought the revolver up and silently settled the grip on the boards, the muzzle tilted up toward the door. Two shots left. He’d used two at the jail to free Colbert, Klint, and Karl. Victoria used a round and he used one more. Two shots from an awkward angle, literally shooting in the dark. His stomach roiled as he realized he was planning exactly how to kill a man.
He silenced the memory of his mother begging with him the morning he left to enlist and offer his services and possibly his life in the fight to preserve the Union and end slavery.
“Ishmael, I am pleading with thee. Thee mustn’t do this. To take a life is wrong, no matter how noble the reason or how vile the adversary.” He had remained implacable, and he had broken his mother’s heart when he walked out the door. She had raced after him, catching him one last time at the gate in the low stone fence which surrounded his childhood home. Tears rolled down her slender, careworn face as she held him in a surprisingly strong hug. “Ishmael, thee will be shunned. Thee will no longer be a part of us. Thee will be alone.” He remembered bending to kiss her brow and extracting himself from her arms. When he walked through the gate, her parting words, no longer in the formal speech reserved for family or other members of the sect, almost stopped him. “I will always love you, my son.”
