by Tamara Gill
He’d hated leaving Anna all soft and warm in bed, but was relieved she didn’t demand to go with him. She’d even promised not to follow behind. At least with her home and safe, he could concentrate on getting the outlaws locked up.
“Mose is here,” Arnold said, gesturing with his chin as the last man rode up.
Wes leaned forward as the three men gathered closer. “We’ll ride hard, set up camp in the woods right outside of Devil’s Dungeon. Then I’ll send two of you into town to scout the area, be sure the Mather men are there.” He shifted his glance to each man in turn. “I’m telling you now, these are dangerous scoundrels. From what I’ve seen and heard, they kill in cold blood. I don’t want anyone going off half-cocked−just keep your eyes and ears open, but follow my lead. Any questions?”
His somber words silenced the men, their horses shuffling, snorting and throwing their heads, anxious to be on their way. Mose shifted a wad of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Let’s ride.” Wes started forward, the rest of the men following behind, leaving a billow of dust as they headed out of town.
***
Within minutes after heading north on Stagecoach Road, the sun crawled over the horizon, turning the gray mist into spun gold. Small animals skittered about, foraging for breakfast. A family of deer stood silent and alert as the men rode by, poised as if ready to take flight. The thunder of the horses’ hooves eased up as the riders reached the point where it became necessary to continue single file. It would be slow going for a few hours.
As the head rider, Wes let Nektosha lead the way as his thoughts drifted to Anna, where his musings often led him lately. Her insistence on getting a job had turned into a battle. In all honesty, she did seem to be a fish out of water in this time. He’d never met a woman with no housekeeping skills at all. He chuckled at the memory of the remains of the supper she’d cooked that he’d found wrapped and in the trash.
But after a rousing bout of lovemaking, they’d sat on the damp and twisted sheets and devoured the mashed potatoes, glazed carrots and rolls from the café, along with the fried chicken she’d said the sewing circle ladies had brought. After piling dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, they headed back to bed, where Anna had no lack of skills.
Would she never settle into this time? Ever really fit in? He broke into a sweat at the thought of whatever force brought her here, whisking her back again. How would he handle her disappearing? Uncomfortable at the thought, he shoved it to the back of his mind, and concentrated on today’s business.
Wes slowed and turned to the men behind him. “We’ll stop here and give the horses a rest.”
A few of the men refilled canteens in the brook running alongside the woods. Wes walked a bit to stretch his muscles after leading Nektosha to water. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the red and white bandana tied around his neck and glanced upward, noting the sun high in the sky. They were making good time. When the sun set to their left, they would be camped and ready to survey the town.
Since he’d been to Devil’s Dungeon before, the plan was to send a couple of the unknown men to town, see what information they could rustle up from the local saloons. Once they had a notion where the Mather men were, they’d close in on them in their sleep. At least he hoped that plan would work, and the whole thing finished without anyone getting shot.
Anxious now to get the job done and out of the way, he whistled for his men to mount up. The quicker this ended, the sooner he could get back to Anna. He mumbled a curse under his breath. The woman was all he thought about.
***
Buck narrowed his eyes at his youngest son when Noah’s lids drifted closed and his head hit the table.
“That boy ain’t got no innards for hard liquor. Shove him off that chair, let him sleep with the vermin.” Buck glared at the boy with scorn before tossing another shot down. Billy pushed his younger brother who fell to the dirt floor, never waking.
“That’s where he deserves to be.” Joe kicked Noah in the ribs, gaining a grunt from the boy.
“When we gonna pull another job, Buck?” Billy crossed his arms over his chest. “Money ain’t gonna last forever.”
“You think I don’t know that, boy?” Buck snarled.
Billy cleared his throat. “I think we should hit the train.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Chasing after a train ain’t no easy way to fill yore pockets up.”
Billy leaned forward. “Them people riding trains are carrying gold. Real money. And there’s a bunch of ‘em. Not the two or three passengers on a stage.” He stabbed the table with his index finger. “I’m sick of the beanheaded jackasses holding onto their money till we have to shoot their fingers to pry it lose.” Billy slumped back, fingering his half-filled glass. “About time we made it big.”
“If you want to go out on your own, boy, you go right ahead. I don’t need ya. I don’t need none of ya. Go on, chase after trains, get yoreself shot or strung up by some yellow-bellied cur with a badge. Don’t make me no never mind.” Buck gulped the last of his beer and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
His gaze wandered the room, taking in two men who stood in the doorway. Big and burly, they sized up the room from under the brims of their low pulled hats. They took seats at a table against the wall and signaled the bartender. A saloon girl sashayed over and slapped a bottle and two glasses on the table. One of the men spoke softly enough that the girl had to lean down, her breasts practically falling out of her dress. The cowboy didn’t seem to notice. She cast a nervous glance around the room.
“Who’s that?” Buck tilted his head in the direction of the strangers.
Joe and Billy both swung around. Joe shrugged and returned to his whiskey. Billy’s brows furrowed. “Ain’t never seen them around here before.”
“Don’t like their looks. Too nosey. Maybe I’ll have a word with them.” Buck shoved back his chair and made his way across the smoky room to stand in front of the two men. When neither acknowledged him, he slammed his fist down on the table. The men jerked and looked up.
“You boys lost?” Buck released a tobacco stream close to one man’s foot, the liquid splashing up to sprinkle his dusty boot.
The stranger swallowed, his hand reaching to his side. Before he moved more than a few inches, Buck had his Colt out and aimed at the man’s face. “You lookin’ for somethin’, boy?”
Both men raised their hands. “Not lookin’ for anything. Especially not trouble,” the older one mumbled.
“Then I suggest you finish up yore drinks and head out. This ain’t no social club,” he sneered. “Yeah, no social club.” He narrowed his eyes. “So git.”
No one looked up as the two men shoved back their chairs and left. Buck wandered back to his table. “Let’s go. I’m sick of this here place.” He kicked Noah in the ribs. “Get up, boy.” When the young man didn’t move, Buck picked up Joe’s beer and dumped it on the sleeping form.
Sputtering, Noah sat up. “Goddammit.”
“Git movin’.”
Shaking his head, beer flying from the ends of his hair, Noah rose and stumbled from the saloon behind Buck and his brothers.
***
Wes and Arnold stood outside the Devil’s Dungeon jailhouse, loud snores reverberating from within the walls. With a nod in Arnold’s direction, Wes slammed his foot against the wooden door, splintering the lock, and knocking it from its hinges.
Moonlight shone through the iron bars of the window, the sheriff barely stirring as they entered. Wes lit an oil lamp on the desk and carried it to a small cot against the wall. He stared in disgust at the sleeping man. After placing the lamp on a table, he gripped the man’s collar and pulled him up, recoiling from the stench of alcohol and tobacco flowing from the drunk’s breath. He twisted the man’s shirt in his fist and shook him.
The sheriff opened his bloodshot eyes and squinted. “Who’re you?”
“A bad dream.” Wes dropped him bac
k onto the cot and bent over, placing his hands on either side of the sheriff’s head. “Where’re the Mathers holed up?”
“Don’t know who you’re talking about,” the sheriff mumbled.
Wes cocked the hammer of his Peacemaker and jammed it against the man’s forehead. “I think you do know who I’m talking about. And unless you want your brains splattered all over this pillow, answer my question.”
The danger he was in finally sobering the sheriff, he narrowed his eyes and studied Wes. “You’re that marshal what was nosing around here a couple of weeks ago.”
“And now I’m back.” Wes nudged him once more with the gun. “Answer my question.”
“They don’t pay me enough for this shit.”
“So you said. Now where are they?”
“Move your gun and I’ll tell ya.”
Wes shook his head. “Information first. Then I move the gun.”
“West of town, about three miles. An old shack buried in the woods on the north side of the road.” The sheriff’s voice was heavy with alcohol and sleep.
“Much obliged, sheriff.” Wes slid the gun into his holster, and grinned at the man. “Probably the best day’s work you’ve done in years.” He turned and strode to the door, slapping the broken frame. “Better get someone to fix this mess.”
***
Wes spoke quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “We circle the place. Mose, you and Jack cover either side. Arnold, go around behind. There might be a back door, even though it’s a small place. I don’t want any of you going inside. With these close quarters, once they start firing someone’s going to get shot.”
He eyed each man in turn. “I’ll be going through the front door. Y’all have families waiting for you at home. I don’t want any heroes. I figure these men wouldn’t rest far from their guns. Just because they’re coming out of a sound sleep, don’t assume they’ll go down without a fight.” He rotated the tension from his neck. “Let’s go. They’ve been in there for a couple hours now.”
Walking with a stealth he’d learned from his Potawatomi relatives, Wes approached the cabin and signaled his men to spread out. Despite the moon, the heavily wooded area hid any light. Good for Wes and his men, but bad for identifying the four outlaws.
A quick study through the window gave him a general idea of where they were. In the low burning fire in the hearth, he picked up two curled on the floor, two others on cots, all accounted for. The timbre of the snoring practically shook the walls of the tiny cabin. Wes moved to the front door, his heart speeding up as he readied himself. He’d done this before, but never had he been forced to rely on untrained hands backing him up.
For an instant a picture of Anna seized hold of his mind. Would he die tonight and leave her a widow? He shook himself. He’d learned in war to block out those kinds of thoughts. More than one solider lost his life on the battlefield because he wasn’t focused.
Confident his eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness, Wes studied the front door. Not wanting to take a chance on it being stronger than it looked, he aimed his Peacemaker carefully at the latch and fired. He immediately slammed his foot against the door and it went down. “Hands up.”
Within seconds the first bullet flew from one of the outlaws’ guns, missing Wes’s head by inches. He ducked behind a beat-up dresser and returned the fire. His attention was drawn to a man crashing through the roughly cut out back door to head outside. Two shots rang out, and Wes broke out into a sweat, hoping Arnold hadn’t been hit.
Pandemonium reigned as the outlaws scrambled for their weapons, firing wildly in Wes’s direction, apparently not at their best when coming out of a drunken sleep. Avoiding the whizzing bullets from behind his hiding place, Wes shouted, “Drop your guns!”
Two men dove through the windows as more warnings and shots rang out, reverberating through the night air. The fourth man attempted to race to the back door, firing as he went, but Wes let off a shot, and the man went down.
Wes cautiously approached the outlaw, lying on the ground and moaning, holding his leg where blood seeped over his pants, spreading in a pool of darkness.
The sidewinder attempted to crawl toward the weapon he’d dropped. Wes knocked him out with the butt of his gun, then quickly tied the man’s hands behind him. He ran outside where his men were firing at two fugitives racing for the woods.
“What happened?” Wes nodded in the direction of the trees.
“My gun jammed when he leapt from the window,” Jack said, shamefacedly.
Mose’s hand clamped around his bleeding arm. “Just a nick, but it knocked the gun out of my hand.”
“I’m going after them,” Wes declared. “Jack, come with me. You others stay here in case they circle back. One of ‘em is tied up inside. Drag him out here before he wakes up.”
They raced into the thicket, toward the sound of running footsteps through the trees and underbrush. Wes fired two shots at the fleeing criminals, then hunkered down behind a tree to re-load. Nervous at having momentarily lost sight of the targets, he rose and carefully studied the area. Noises in the distance signaled the direction of the outlaws. Wes and Jack continued on in the darkness, pushing leaves and branches out of their path, following for about half a mile, but gradually the sounds faded away.
Goddammit. Two of the Mather gang had managed to escape. Frustrated at having lost them, Wes scrubbed his palm down his sweaty face and stood still, hoping for a rustle of leaves—anything—to tip him off. Nothing but the hoot of owls and flutter of bats sounded in the still night air. He turned and headed back.
As Wes and Jack got within shouting distance of the cabin, Arnold jogged up to them. “One of them’s dead. I got him when he crashed through the back door.”
“I’m just glad he didn’t get you. Any of the other men shot?”
“Just Mose’s nick on the arm, otherwise nothing.”
Wes nodded. “How’s our prisoner?”
“Awake. We tied more rope around him.”
The sun had grown closer to the horizon in the time since their attack, and the gray dawn revealed one outlaw gagged and tied up, the other one lying still on the ground. Someone had turned him over, his empty eyes staring into the slowly lightening sky, a large hole in his chest.
“Appears Buck was one of the ones who made it out. And from the looks of these two, I’d say the youngest one, Noah, escaped with him.” Wes studied the dead man, unsure if he was Billy or Joe. He’d match him up with the ‘wanted’ posters when he got back to the jail.
Mose gestured toward the woods behind the cabin. “We goin’ after them?” Blood continued to ooze from between his fingers where he held his wound.
“No. We trailed them as far as we could. They know these woods better than we do. It’s best to get these two back to Denton.” Wes nodded toward the prisoner. “No point in leaving him with the local sheriff.”
The men wrapped the dead body in one of the dirty blankets pulled from the cabin, then Wes instructed them to tie the bundle to Nektosha, since he could trust him with the burden. Skittish with the scent of the dead body, the animal bucked and shook his large head, sidestepping with tension until Wes murmured to the horse, calming him down.
Pulling the other man up, Wes shoved him toward a horse. “Let’s go, son. I got a nice jail cell waiting for you, and a circuit judge anxious to string you up.”
The quiet woods rang with muffled curses from the outlaw’s gagged mouth as Wes dragged him to a horse. He hoisted him into the saddle and tied the man’s hands to the horn. “Let’s get out of here before those other two varmints come back and shoot us in the back.”
***
Buck leaned over, resting his palms on his thighs, his breath misting in the early dawn as he took in gulps of air. The damn marshal had killed one of his boys. In the confusion of the dim room and surprise of the attack, he hadn’t seen who’d been shot. Either Billy or Joe was dead. One gone and the other one most likely headed to the hangman’s noose.
<
br /> “You all right, Buck?” Noah stood with his hands on his hips, eyeing him.
“‘Course I’m all right.” In one quick move, he backhanded his youngest son. “Why didn’t you shoot that damn marshal?”
Noah rubbed his face. “I couldn’t see ‘em. It was dark.”
“Yeah, well, he saw your brothers.” Buck nudged Noah in the back. “Git movin’, boy. We’ll circle and head back to town.”
“What’re we gonna do about the others?”
Noah cringed as Buck raised his hand again. “Whatta yuh think? We’re going after whoever’s locked up in the Denton jail. Then we’ll see that marshal regrets the day he decided to mess with me and my young’uns.” He spat on the ground. “But first we’re gonna pay the sheriff a visit. He’s the only one who knew where we was.”
Buck’s gut burned with hatred. As it had most of his life. Hatred for his old man who shot Buck’s mother in the face, then made his son clean up the mess and bury her. The three women who’d birthed his four sons were no better−lyin’, cheatin’, stealin’ whores that they were.
His teeth ground together as they walked toward town. That marshal just signed his death warrant by bustin’ in on them, murderin’ one of his boys, then takin’ another. When Buck got through with the man, he’d wish he was never born. And before he slit the throat of that clabberheaded idiot of a sheriff, he’d get all he could from him about the marshal.
This was something that needed to be planned out. No rushin’ in there, shootin’ up the place and gettin’ hisself killed. The marshal would know what pain was, would plead for his life. Just the thought of the man on his knees in the dirt brought a twitch to Buck’s lips, and a hankerin’ to kick the man in the throat.
After the lawman begged for his life, he’d run his knife under his chin and watch the blood ooze out onto the ground like his boy’s.
Yeah, I have plans for you, marshal.
