by Jenna Kernan
He regarded them closely. Quin, serious and confident. Bowie, brave and just. Both were exactly the sort of men that a woman would want. Could he be like them?
“We might be able to take them if we wait for darkness,” said Quin. “I could get my boys from the 4C.”
“No,” said Bowie. “I’m not going to start a land war. We’re riding out to his place and arresting him and if he won’t come in, well, we’ll have to make him.”
Chance knew something of this. His time chasing outlaws had taught him a few things.
“First, there’s not a chance in hell they’ll let you arrest them,” said Chance. “Ira and Johny are wanted for murder and know they will hang. Even if they kill us all, they’ll be tracked down by bounty hunters and brought in eventually. That means they have to run and it only makes sense that they’ll run for Mexico.”
“Don doesn’t know we have a witness linking him to Ma’s and Pa’s deaths. He might think he’s shored up all his fences,” said Quin.
“Which means we have a choice,” said Bowie. “Right now, he can deny any knowledge of what Van Slyck was up to, claim ignorance of the use of his accounts to hold the money Van Slyck embezzled. He’ll say that he was as much in the dark as we were. He thinks he’s clear.”
“That doesn’t mean he’ll be willing to hand over his boys.”
“No. He’ll help them.”
“So we need a party to go after the boys and one to take Fitzgerald.”
“Or we could tell him we have a witness,” said Quin.
Bowie scowled. “You tell him and his back is to the wall. He’ll come at us with everything he’s got.”
Quin gave a cold smile. “Exactly.”
Bowie and Chance exchanged a look.
“If we tell him, he’ll run,” said Bowie.
Quin looked at Chance. “That examiner say whether or not Fitzgerald actually has our money?”
“Don doesn’t have it,” said Chance. “It’s in his accounts at the bank.”
Bowie’s crystal eyes narrowed. “They’ll come for it. They’ll bring the fight to us.”
“They have to,” said Chance.
“We best get ready, then.”
All three brothers nodded, in agreement at last.
“But we don’t have a witness against Don,” said Bowie.
This time it was Quin who smiled. “Yes. We do.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Late that afternoon, Bowie decided to give the Fitzgeralds a chance to surrender without bloodshed. He sent two representatives, Dr. Lewis in his carriage, drawn by his black trotter, accompanied by Ace Keating, the owner of the saddle shop, riding beside him on a muscular bay gelding. Both men had a vested interest in the town but no argument with Don and his boys. They carried with them a letter from Bowie, in which he advised them that he had a witness to Earl’s and Ruby’s murders and that if all three came in, he’d guarantee their safety and a trial in a location other than Cahill Crossing.
Bowie, Leanna, Quin and Chance all watched their emissaries until they passed Town Square and turned toward Fort Ridge, knowing that the men would reach Fitzgerald’s ranch in less than an hour.
“Will they be all right?” asked Leanna.
“Yes,” said Bowie.
“You think they’ll come in?” she asked.
“I do,” he said. “But not to surrender.”
Don Fitzgerald eyed the dust coming up the road. He’d given his men orders that nobody get close to the house, yet that was definitely a buggy heading his way with several of his boys as escorts.
He sent his sons and Whitaker inside to wait until he knew who it was. He hoped it was Bowie. He would just love to shoot that sanctimonious son of a gun between the eyes. But it wasn’t. Bowie wasn’t stupid like Ira, or reckless like Johny. Now he’d have to pack his only sons off to Mexico and all because of Chance Cahill and his big nose.
He’d warned his sons to lay off the businesses until Chance blew out of town again. That boy never stayed anywhere long. Don had liked Chance when he was young, seeing more of Ruby’s free spirit in him. The other two recalled Earl to his mind. Back then Chance had run with Ira and Johny for a time. But that hadn’t lasted.
He wondered about the money. With Willem Van Slyck dead, he had no way to get to it. Damn, he hated bankers.
Don shaded his eyes with his hand against the setting sun.
“It’s Doc Lewis,” called Sydney from the gate. “Somebody’s riding with him.”
Who would be addled enough to ride out here? A hostage, he hoped. Give them some leverage.
“Who is it?”
“Ace Keating,” called Sydney.
Damn, he liked Keating. He was a genius with a saddle, a regular artist. Bowie had chosen well.
“Send them up.”
The eight armed cowboys beside him lowered their weapons. Ira came to the door.
“Can we come out?”
“No, damn it. Do you want them to say they seen you?”
Ira shut the door. A moment later Dr. Lewis pulled the buggy to a stop before him. Ace remained in the saddle as Lewis stepped down, sending the springs bouncing.
He held his arms stiffly at his sides. “I’m in possession of a letter from Marshal Cahill. He asked me to give it to you and wait for a reply.”
Don nodded and the doctor reached inside his long black coat, retrieving an envelope. Then Lewis placed one boot on Don’s step and leaned to deliver his message. He stood back as Don tore into the flap and opened the folded page.
He snorted as he read, then scowled as a finger of dread writhed in his belly. Bowie mentioned Muddy as a witness.
Don thought back to that day. Newt had been there, all right. His business was going to be affected by the decision since his ferry already had use of Cahill land and was near the site Earl proposed for the town. It was one of the reasons they had picked Earl’s property. He had the ferry already, but only because he was a damned fool and let Muddy operate the thing on his land for free. But it turned out he was no fool, because the men from the committee had mentioned the advantage of having a ferry in the town. Muddy had left Wolf Grove that evening. Don had seen him go. But he’d been real drunk from celebrating. Had he passed out at Ghost Canyon, as Bowie stated? Don read on. Bowie mentioned details that only an eyewitness would know. Had that damned drunk seen it all? Why hadn’t he come forward till now?
Bowie had him. Don was certain. And just like Earl, Bowie thought he’d outmaneuvered him. But he was just as wrong—dead wrong. He hated Earl and he hated Cahill Crossing. As of right now, he no longer wanted to own it. He wanted to wipe it off the face of the earth.
He wadded up the page and threw it in the dirt.
Lewis followed the balled paper with his gaze. “That your answer?”
“No. You tell him we’ll be along. They can expect us.”
Chance sat with his brothers at Leanna’s table in the little house she shared with her husband and Melvin, the baby, Cabe, and her surly cook, Dorothy, who Chance did not like any better here than he had in Deadwood. The woman hated men, but seemed to tolerate Cleve, for reasons Chance did not understand.
The knock at the front door brought all the men to their feet, guns drawn.
Leanna rose belatedly and wiped her mouth on her napkin. “Do you really think Fitzgerald would knock?” She turned to Dorothy and nodded. “Go see, Dottie.”
They remained standing, listening, until Chance recognized the voice of Ace Keating. He holstered his pistols. A moment later Keating and Dr. Lewis appeared with Dorothy, looking like she just sucked a lemon.
Bowie greeted them with a handshake and a few words.
“You think he’s coming in?” Bowie asked Dr. Lewis.
“Oh, he’s coming, all right. But not to turn himself in. I also saw Ira in the window of the house. So they haven’t gone anywhere.”
“You see Whitaker?” asked Bowie.
Lewis shook his head.
Bowie turned
to Quin. “You think they’ll come tonight?”
“Maybe. But they’ve got to prepare. We best do the same.”
The men headed for the door, Cleve a step behind because he had to pass off the baby first.
At the jail, Bowie unlocked the rifle case and retrieved something from beside the ammunition boxes. He spread three badges on the desk.
“I want to deputize you.”
Quin and Cleve stared at the silver stars. Chance scooped one up.
“Raise your right hands first,” said Bowie.
Two minutes later they had all been duly sworn.
Bowie recruited a number of volunteers, but the total was less than he had hoped. It seemed most men who owned businesses were not willing to take up arms to defend them against a mob of killers.
Quin’s men arrived from the 4C and he posted lookouts on every road but the night passed quietly. The signal shots sounded the following day at midmorning, announcing the Fitzgerald gang had chosen the most obvious of paths to town and were riding in in broad daylight.
All the Fitzgerald men, the turncoat deputy plus a dozen hands, all armed with rifles, charged straight past the general store, but they did not turn toward the bank, as expected.
Bowie, Chance and Quin had taken up positions across from the bank in the drugstore.
“What are they carrying?” asked Quin.
“Torches,” said Bowie, leaving cover in favor of the door.
All three reached the street.
“He’s headed for Leanna’s Place,” yelled Quin, running now.
Fitzgerald’s men carried bottles, stuffed with rags. Chance watched in horror as they lit and threw the incendiary bombs. Kerosene exploded like liquid fire, sticking to the planking and igniting the porch of the general store. A second bottle shattered the front window. Screaming echoed from within.
The Cahills ran, trying to catch riders who now separated into two groups, Don and his boys leading one and Whitaker taking the other. Quin’s men fired from the roof of Arthur Slocum’s law office and two riders went down, but now the store was blazing and men scrambled from the interior, which had black smoke pouring out of it. Chance watched another grenade sail through the air, exploding into flame on the porch roof of Leanna’s Place. Windows flew open and her girls, who had been hiding upstairs, beat the flames into submission with wet blankets.
The second group of riders charged past them.
“Ellie,” Chance yelled. “The hotel.”
He turned and ran after Whitaker’s group, leaving Bowie and Quin firing at Ira and Johny, who now returned fire from horseback. Smoke burned Chance’s nostrils and obscured his vision as he ran past the burning store. Burnett stood on the porch of his wife’s boutique, taking slow aim at the riders as they passed. The former Texas Ranger did not miss and three more men fell from their horses. But there were so many.
It looked as if Don Fitzgerald was preparing to burn Cahill Crossing to the ground.
By the time Chance reached the hotel there were at least five fires burning. Screaming, smoke, flames, chaos.
Chance had to find Ellie.
The riders whirled in the street, charging back past the Château Royale. Smoke burned his eyes, but he saw what they held in their hands—dynamite, with the short fuse already burning.
“No!”
But no one could hear him as he shouted into the chaos. He lifted his rifle, taking aim at the rider lighting another stick even as the first turned the front of the hotel to splintered kindling.
The man lit the fuse with his cigar, drawing his last breath as Chance’s bullet struck him in the chest. He tumbled backward, the dynamite rolled forward.
Chance dove away as the blast deafened him. Where were his brothers? Where was Ellie?
Johny and Ira charged past him as Chance staggered to his feet. He couldn’t hear. The whole world was burning, screaming, and he couldn’t hear a thing but a sound like a waterfall coursing over rocks. Someone emerged from the smoke.
Oscar Jenkins. He took Chance’s shoulders and shook him. Chance could see his mouth moving, but there was no sound.
Then he heard him, his voice coming from far away. A tiny voice, like an echo thrown off a canyon wall.
“Are you all right?”
That snapped Chance back to his surroundings.
“Where’s Ellie?”
“Safe. She led the guests down the back stairs. They’re all holed up in the depot until this is over. Leanna’s with her and Cleve. They ran down the tracks with the girls.”
The depot was directly behind the hotel, so new arrivals could walk from the depot to the hotel or restaurant along the new boardwalk.
“Is Annie safe?”
Oscar nodded. “They all got out.”
“Her place?”
“Don’t know.” He looked back at his hotel, the lobby blazing. “Go after Don, Chance.”
Oscar ran back toward the fire and Chance took off after the Fitzgeralds. Ellie was all right. Her father had said so.
Chance raced after Ira and Johny. He ran through the smoke, jumping over debris and past downed horses kicking and screaming from their wounds. The booming town had turned into a battleground. Men beat at flames with their coats and bucket brigades were already forming at the general store. The flames had leaped from the Royale to Steven’s Restaurant. The bakery was next door and then Rosa’s Boutique. He saw Rosa Burnett on the roof of her porch, throwing a wet bedsheet over the cedar shingles. Below her, Burnett pointed.
“Toward Town Square!”
They were going for the bank now. Why hadn’t they thought this might happen when they had dared Don Fitzgerald to come to their town?
Because he just couldn’t picture anyone killing innocents or burning down businesses. But neither could he picture a man so filled with rage and spite that he’d kill their mother and shoot Bowie’s girl.
A man like that might do anything at all.
He found Quin first, or Quin found him, pulling him to cover behind the brick base of the half-finished stone barricade that would someday be the fountain at the center of the square. Bowie was already there, loading cartridges into his rifle.
“What did you see?” asked Bowie.
“The Royale is burning. They’re using dynamite.”
“Heard it,” said Bowie, his voice sounding tinny to Chance’s ears.
“They cleared the hotel and are all holed up at the depot. Annie is there with her girls,” yelled Chance.
“Good. Don and his boys are in the bank. They’re on foot. We took out their horses,” shouted Quin, his voice still sounding strange to Chance’s ringing ears.
“We can pin them down in the bank.”
A boom accompanied an explosion that took out all the bank windows, sending shards of glass showering into the street.
“They’ve blown the vault,” said Bowie.
“But they can’t get away,” insisted Quin.
“Unless they also blow out the back of the building,” countered Bowie.
All three scrambled to their feet, but Bowie and Quin halted. Chance glanced about but could see no threat. He looked to them for explanation.
Both his brothers turned their heads as if listening to something Chance could not hear. He didn’t like the look they exchanged.
“The train,” said Bowie. “They’ve been planning to take it out all along.”
Panic flashed through Chance like a pistol flash.
“Ellie’s at the depot!” And so was his sister and who knew how many others. Chance started to run again, back into the smoke that billowed from the general store, now consumed by fire. His heart crashed against the walls of his ribs like a mad horse throwing himself against the fences.
Ellie, he had to get to Ellie.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chance had been prepared to die to avenge his parents’ murders. But he hadn’t thought anyone else would have to. And now all he wanted was to find Ellie. If he could only see her safe,
he didn’t care what happened to Don Fitzgerald. His world narrowed, obscured by smoke and death, to that which was most essential. All that mattered was protecting Ellie.
What if they hurt her? What if they threw a stick of dynamite into that depot and killed them all?
Bowie and Quin were fast, but Chance, bolstered by the rush of pure panic, outdistanced them both. He’d lost his rifle, but not the pistols strapped to his thighs. Six shots apiece and more rounds in his gun belt. He recognized that now he wasn’t fighting for revenge; he was fighting for the woman he loved and he’d kill anyone who stood in his way.
They streaked between Rosa’s Boutique and the bakery. Every window of the wooden house now hung with wet blankets and sheets against the blaze of Steven’s two doors down. The restaurant already had flames lapping out of the windows and lines of men swung full buckets from one hand to the next, wetting the clapboard of the bakery.
Smoke burned his eyes. From down the tracks he heard the whistle shriek, announcing the train’s on-time arrival at Cahill Crossing’s depot. Only today the world had turned upside down and the newly emerging town blazed with the fires of hell. Chance cleared the alley and made it onto the boardwalk. Steam from the engine blasted across the platform, merging with the smoke.
And then he saw them. The walkway was crowded with people, herded like cattle by Fitzgerald’s men, trapped between the fire and the train.
Where was Ellie?
“Leanna!” shouted Quin, now just behind him.
Ira had their sister, holding her about the waist, pressing her up against him as a human shield. Don had hold of Maria, the chambermaid from the Royale. She clawed at his face as he used her hair to bring her along. Whitaker came next, holding Cassie in the same fashion. The woman made no protest for he held a gun to her head, next came Johny dragging Ellie. Each man had a saddlebag slung over his shoulder. Chance knew it must be stuffed with cash and gold coins from the bank.
